Farrago
by B.C Daily
Summary: A medley of unconnected drabbles focusing on James and Lily.
1. Declaration

**Author's Notes:** Well, I've finally done it — jumped on the drabble-series bandwagon. But really, these little babies needed somewhere to go and I just couldn't condone posting a million 500-word oneshots. So we have this instead. At first I thought I would be _super_ noob and title it with some kind of song lyric, but my gag reflex kicked in and I decided to go back to my roots, the Every-Title-Is-Better-When-It-Is-Translated-Into-Latin! craze. So 'Farrago' madly enough translates into 'medley'. Whoah. I know. Deep, right?

This one was written in honor of Olivia, who had a bad day and deserved a bit of fluff to wake up to.

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><p><strong>Declaration<strong>

She slams her books down on the table next to him, loudly and without any regard for those studying diligently in the library around them. He doesn't jump, but his head jerks up at the sudden sound and he looks at her. She's staring at him with narrowed eyes as she drops herself into the seat next to him, but he refuses to give her what she wants no matter what look she throws his way. He lifts his chin defiantly and glares back.

"James," she hisses.

"I'm not apologising," he responds instantly, stubbornly. "And I'm not taking it back, either."

"Did I ask you to?" she demands, but James isn't stupid. He knows she hasn't been glaring at him for the past twenty-four hours for no reason. She's cross he did it, but he's not sorry, and he won't pretend that he is. He gives her a look that tells her so, and forces himself to stare back down at his textbook.

She lets out an annoyed huff.

"You attacked me," she accuses, sounding petulant. "You attacked me and then you just _walked away_ as if it was all right!"

"Attacked you?" James scoffs, eyes snapping to her sharply. "Lily, I kissed you. I didn't come at you with a Beater's bat."

"For all your consideration, you might as well have done!" she cries, and jerks her head closer to his. Bits of hair have fallen out from the knot she had it pulled back into earlier in the day. The pieces frame her face, deep red and silky. James's fingers itch—they'd liked being weaved through that mane for those few precious seconds yesterday—but he knows better than to let them move now. At least, he hopes he does. Sometimes that's a problem of his, the knowing better and the doing it anyway. Especially with her. Got him into this whole damned dilemma in the first place, hadn't it?

James reminds himself not to think of it as a dilemma. It was a declaration. There is an important difference.

He leans in closer, until their faces are mere centimeters apart.

"If you keep crowding me like this," he says, "I'm going to start to think you want me to do it again."

Lily's eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn't move. James doesn't either.

"That was a serious threat," he warns her. "I'm not kidding. I'll do it."

He thinks this will get her to react, if only to shoot him a sour glare and a nasty remark. He'll take that. He's expecting it, if he's being honest. He'd expected it last night, as well, which is why he'd walked away afterwards. He hadn't wanted to ruin the otherwise rather brilliant moment.

But instead of pulling a face or skinning him bare verbally, Lily does the one thing James honestly had never expected her to. She leans in before he can and closes her mouth over his, quick but hard.

"If you don't ask me out by the end of the night," she threatens as she pulls away, already grabbing her books and rising from the library chair, "I'm going to find that Beater's bat you mentioned before and maim you with it."


	2. Fraud

**Author's Notes:** Written for the lilyjames_fest's flash fiction round on livejournal. The prompt was "masquerade."

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>Fraud<p>"You're such a fraud," she says.<p>

James lifts his head from the Transfiguration tome he's been diligently reading, surprised at how startled he is by the sudden interruption. His vision blurs for a moment, but the redhead standing before him soon drifts back into focus.

Bloody hell, how long has he been here?

Lily takes the seat across from him, dropping a stack of library books on the table next to her. The loud ithump/i catches the attention of Pince who—Merlin's beard, he i_must_/i be dreaming—gives Lily a quelling look before nodding at him in approval. His eyes flash to Lily's in bafflement.

"What?" he asks.

"You. I can't believe this masquerade you've been playing at for so long. And I fell for it." She grabs the topmost book from her pile and flicks it open. It's some massive, dusty, maroon thing. Very Lily-like.

"What're you on about?" James rubs at his eyes beneath his glasses. "What masquerade?"

"The I'm-such-a-twit-don't-know-what-the-library-is-can-barely-even-read gambit." Lily flips idly through the pages in her book. "It's all an act. I should have known. No one can be so smart without trying."

"You think I'm smart, Evans?"

Lily sends him a dry look. "You'll pass."

James grins. Shifting slightly, the groan escapes unintentionally as his muscles burn in protest. He collapses against the chair back, his limbs all floppy. His head lolls back for a moment. His bones crack when he sits up again.

"What time's it?"

"Half past seven."

"Half past—there's no way!"

"Fraud," Lily shoots at him again. She's settled on a page in her first book and grabs a second from her pile. This one has bits of parchment stuck inside to mark pages. She flips to the third marker. "What're you devouring there?" she asks.

James bristles self-consciously. "I haven't been devouring anything."

Lily snorts. "You've been sitting here flipping through that thing for hours, Potter. Save the masquerade for someone else. I've caught on, remember?"

"You've got the wrong idea. I never do this."

"Right. Never. What book is it?"

Resigned (and maybe a little eager. She's speaking to him, isn't she?), James lifts the book from the table so that Lily can view the cover. "Transfiguration," he says.

Lily nods. "Thought so. Perfect."

James lifts his eyebrows. "Perfect?"

In answer, Lily simply thrusts one of her dusty tomes at him. She pokes at one of the passages. "Read that," she says.

Slightly suspicious, James nonetheless does as she orders. It's some sort of Charms theory—complicated as hell from the looks of it. Only Lily would be reading shite like this in her spare time. But as he continues skimming through the passage, some of the words jump out at him. "i_Theories of Transfiguration have proven false in the application…with help from Huber's Paradox…_" /i

"This can't be right," he mutters.

The grin that Lily gives him then is positively dazzling.

"Come along then, Fraud," she says. "We're going to disprove an ancient theory together. Ready?"


	3. Cold

**Author's Notes:** Written for the 2010 lilyjames_fest's flash fiction round on livejournal. The prompt was: _"Morning without you is a dwindled dawn." _[Emily Dickinson]

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><p><strong>Cold<strong>

She's perfectly aware how utterly pathetic it sounds, but she stirs awake in the morning without him, and suddenly feels cold.

She tells herself she's being dramatic—cold in the _head_, is what she is—but the feeling persists despite her self-scolding. She burrows further into her blankets, cocooning the soft cotton around her body in a proper swaddle. If James were there, she wouldn't be able to do this. He's a covers hog, selfish in sleep despite the noticeable changes he's made awake. He's also a fidgeter, constantly draping some limb or another over hers in an accidental (or perhaps deliberate) embrace. Add these to the fact that they never quite manage to get much _sleeping_ done whenever he stays with her, and Lily's almost convinced herself that her dawns are best greeted alone.

Almost.

She doesn't much mind his cover hogging, actually—not when she has his body to keep her warm. And despite the surprise of waking up with entangled limbs, she relishes the moments when he lets her rest her cold toes against his warm calves, knowing that he only makes the hissing protests for show.

As for her lack of sleep…well, some things are worth waking up groggy for. _Quite_ worth it.

_He's with Remus_, she reminds herself, forcing her eyes closed again as she shifts restlessly against the pillows. _Full moon. He's being a good friend. Quit being such a peagoose_.

But she can't help it. The dawn dwindles by slowly. She lies there in a half-sleeping state. She isn't certain for how long.

The sudden crash springs her awake.

"Bloody fucking—_ow_."

Her heart hammers, fading slowly to a softer pulse when she recognizes the familiar voice. Warmth floods through her.

"James?" she calls.

He grumbles and swears. "Yeah. Sorry. Ruddy _hairbrush_. Stupid _bugger_—"

With a few additional oaths, he collapses onto the bed next to her, his heavy weight causing the mattress to shift slightly. His hair is wet and the smell of soap radiates off him. He nestles up next to her, absently nuzzling the curve between her neck and shoulder. A few stray water droplets dampen her nightshirt as his cool lips press against her skin.

"Hey," he murmurs, tugging feebly at her blanket cocoon. "Lemme under there."

"What are you doing in here?"

"Sleeping."

"Just sleeping?"

James groans. "Been running bloody marathons all night, Lil. Can't do it. Too knackered. Tomorrow. Few hours. Promise."

Lily presses her lips together. "You've your own bed, don't you?"

James's teeth sink into her neck, a light nip. "M'bed's cold. Need you."

"James—"

"Shhh. Night."

The sun's come up, but despite the growing light, he falls asleep quickly. Somehow, he maneuvers most of the blanket out from beneath her. Lily huddles up against him with her paltry part, sighing contently. His arm snakes around her stomach and pulls her closer.

She's warm. (It's probably the sun.)


	4. Liam

**Author's Notes:** Written for the 2010 lilyjames_fest's flash fiction round on livejournal. The prompt was Lily's cat.

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>Liam<p>An enchantment. That must be it. He'd bewitched her cat.<p>

"I didn't know you had a pet, Evans." Potter bent, skimming his fingers along the cat's coppery fur as he sat on the sofa in their new common room. Lily unpacked her books into the shelves lining one wall. Potter plucked the feline off the ground, plopping him unceremoniously onto his lap. "What's his name?"

"Liam. But don't do that. He's not really…" Liam shifted, then settling contently across Potter's thighs. Lily cocked an eyebrow, "…friendly."

Potter stroked Liam's head. "Chin up, mate. She doesn't speak the best of me, either."

Lily adored Liam, really she did, but she was the first to admit that her cat was ornery at best, often times worse. He and Lily had bonded from the start, but Liam only tolerated a select few others. Her roommates had complained constantly about her grouchy pet, and Lily had suspected it would be the same with the Head Boy. But for whatever reason, Potter and Liam hit it off straight away. Their polar opposite personalities somehow meshed.

Liam became James's.

"Quit stealing my cat!" Lily stormed into his bedroom one afternoon, scooping Liam off the bed where he'd been—as usual—lounging about with James. Liam mewed in protest. Lily clutched him protectively against her chest.

Potter sighed. "Honestly, Evans. We were doing our essay."

"Honestly, Potter, get your own pet!"

"You know, instead of dragging poor Liam off, you could just join us." The grin pulled at the corners of Potter's lips. He patted the empty space beside him. "Bed fits three."

Lily slammed the door on her way out.

But for all that her position as superior human had been usurped, sometimes Lily understood why Liam favoured James Potter. The bloke had his faults, but she could reluctantly admit that he wasn't as giant a blighter as she'd once imagined. He could be genuinely charming when he tried, and though he still laced most of his comments with some sort of double-entendre, Lily found herself minding it less.

Liam had taken to sleeping in James's room, so when Lily woke up early one morning to find her cat patrolling her bed, she was instantly suspicious.

"What? Been kicked out?" She nestled beneath her covers, bitter. "Don't come crying to me."

The crash sounded as Liam purred angrily.

Lily threw on her dressing gown and stumbled down the stairs, Liam trailing at her heels. Even in the pale dawn light, James's collapsed body and the pained expression donning his face were immediately recognizable—so was the red stain blooming down his trouser leg.

"James!" Lily dashed forward, rounding the fallen lamp and crouching next to James's body. Liam followed, mewing loudly.

Sweat glistened across Potter's forehead. "Oy. Tattling, Liam?" His voice was weak. "Bad form, mate."

Lily went for the injury, carefully lifting the bloodied material. The gash was deep.

"He's saving your _life_, idiot," she muttered.

"Love that cat," Potter wheezed, before he passed out.


	5. The Badge Fiasco

**Author's Notes:** Written for the 2010 lilyjames_fest's flash fiction round on livejournal. The prompt was Head Girl badge.

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><p><strong>The Badge Fiasco<strong>

Originally, he'd swiped it as a lark.

"_Damn_ it." She crawls about their common room floor, making a rather fine picture as she scurries and swears on her hands and knees. James leans against the doorjamb, taking a moment to admire her bum.

"Looking for something, Evans?" he asks innocently.

Her answer is muffled—hardly surprising considering her upper-half is buried beneath the sofa. "Go'way."

"A new game, then? Can't I join?"

Lily's lower-half shimmies, her upper-half reappearing soon afterwards. She's scowling. "Must everything be a joke to you?" she demands, rising swiftly to her feet. She wastes no time in grabbing the sofa cushions, tossing them aside. "Honestly. Such a _child_."

James frowns. "Seems to me that _you're_ the one who's lost something, Evans. Hope it wasn't important."

Lily glares at him. "Bugger _off_, Potter."

James bristles, temper rising as he strides up the stairs to his bedroom. He fingers the Head Girl badge hidden deep inside his pocket. Once upstairs, he stashes it in his trunk.

From then on, James makes sure to flash his Head Boy badge whenever Lily's near. Weeks pass. Sometimes, he catches her searching the rooms again. He feels guilty until she makes another one of her biting remarks—that's when he gives his badge an extra waxing.

About a month into term, there's a knock on his door. He opens it to find Lily on the other side. Her face is red.

"Have you seen my badge?" she asks.

James's hand goes to his hair. "Er, no. Lost it?"

"It's been missing for weeks. I don't…you sure?" Something crosses her face. Her voice squeaks. James's stomach rolls uncomfortably. Instinctively, his hand falls to her shoulder.

"Evans?" he asks. "You—"

The tears come instantaneously.

"Oh, _God_." Her hands fly up to cover her face, but her shoulders shake and the sobs hack at her words. "God, I d-don't even know w-what I'm _doing_. I d-don't…_shit_. Can't e-even keep my _badge_! I s-shouldn't be H-head _Girl_."

James panics, recoils in confusion. "Lily, come on. Don't—"

"It's a s-sign," she whispers, tears streaming. "I'm shite. No one listens to m-me. Not like you. I can't…c-can't—"

"Fuck up?" James interrupts, hardly believing what he's hearing. "Because that's all I do, Evans. And you…you're perfect. Meant for this. Honestly."

Lily shakes her head. "No. I—"

"_Yes_." He wipes clumsily at her tears. "You'll find it. You're brilliant. Truly."

Later, after she's left, James stashes the badge in the common room. The next morning, Lily's delighted cries reach his room.

"All right, Evans?" he calls down the stairs. She appears suddenly, victoriously waving the badge aloft.

"Look! I've found it!" A brilliant smile spreads across her lips.

James smiles, too. "Must be a sign," he says.

Lily laughs."Yeah, maybe."

Her eyes twinkle at him before she turns around and disappears.

One night, after Lily's rocked Harry to sleep and they're sitting contently in their den, James confesses his part in the badge fiasco.

He spends the night on the couch.


	6. Florigraphy

**Author's Notes**: Written for the 2011 lilyjames_fest's first drabble round on livejournal.

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><p><strong>Florigraphy<strong>

In the end, they settle on twelve separate blooms.

James finds reasons to second-guess each flower by turn, doubting this one, then that, but Professor Sprout—having recovered quite nicely from the surprise that the cryptic note she'd received this morning from the Head Boy was actually a desperate plea for aid in florigraphy—stands firmly by their bunch.

"She'll love them," she says, handing over the finished bouquet. "They're just right."

Now, however, standing before Lily in the middle of breakfast, thrusting the bouquet of clashing flowers blindly beneath her nose, James reckons it's his sanity that needs second-guessing.

"Oh." Lily blinks, staring blankly at the bouquet. Slowly, she takes them from him. "How...eclectic."

"They're meaningful," James says, flushing.

"Meaningful?"

He nods, babbling uncontrollably. "That one there—er, gladiolus, it's called. It means respect. Because I respect you. And that one, the daisy. It means patience, which…well, you are. With me. And that yellow one there—can't remember what it's called—but it's the flower of friendship. Which I'm glad we are. And the orchid, that means beauty, and those little blue ones mean 'thank you'—"

"As in, 'Thank you for the snog. Here are some flowers. Let's do it again?'" Lily asks.

James chokes. "What? No! No, I—well, I mean, _yes_. But, no! That's not…Shit." He swears desperately, sensing that she could just as easily slap him as snog him now and he hasn't the faintest which one she's presently leaning towards. He considers swearing again. A shaky hand fists his hair. He's such a wanker. But what else was he supposed to do? You don't spend the evening ravishing the witch of your dreams, then just wake up the next morning and go eat porridge. He wanted to do something special. Something meaningful.

But now Lily thinks he's mental, he's not certain she's wrong, and he's almost positive Sirius just flipped him off behind Lily's shoulder which means the others have told him about last night and now he's in trouble. The whole morning's a cock-up.

James sighs, wilting visibly. He's on the verge of apologising—what for, he's not certain, but it seems the thing to do—when suddenly, Lily speaks.

"What about this one?" she asks, pointing. "This red one. What does it mean?"

She's asking about the red carnation, the one James knows quite well means romance and passion—his favourite—but he answers, "Don't remember."

Lily hums noncommittally. "Well. Thank you for the flowers." Abruptly, she thrusts her hand into the bouquet. She grips the little blue flowers from the bunch, pulling out the stalk and passing it over to him. "They're beautiful"—she does the same with the orchid, hands it to him—"I respect you, too"—the gladiolus—"and while I'm glad we're friends"—the unnamed yellow—"I'm actually not that patient"—the daisy—"and would rather be more"—the carnation—"so just ask me out, all right?"

She turns easily, leaving him there, taking his heart with her.


	7. It Happened One Morning

**Author's Notes**: Written in honour of Lasya's birthday. Happy birthday, Lasya!

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><p><strong>It Happened One Morning<strong>

"Hey, Evans. Do a bloke a favour?"

The question comes at Lily far too early in the morning for her to have even a modicum of a sense of humour about it. Her eyes are droopy, she hasn't had her caffeine yet, and she's rather certain that she forgot to brush her hair this morning. She's tired, disheveled, and irritable. As such, she shifts instantly from glaring mutinously down at her breakfast to glaring mutinously up at James Potter, but neither is particularly satisfying. Things do not improve when Potter decides to take the seat next to her. Growling is a semi-serious option. She opts for sarcasm instead.

"Let me guess." She sticks a spoonful of porridge into her mouth to delay the inevitable, playing at thinking seriously. "You're lonely. Can't I keep you company? Or have you lost your heart and think I might know where it is? Wait. Better yet, you've lost your bed, and would like my assistance in finding it. Any of these forthcoming?"

Potter chuckles appreciatively, casually grabbing a slice of uneaten toast from her plate and taking a hefty bite. "No, not quite," he answers, still chewing. "Though I reserve the right to revisit these requests at a future date. I'm afraid this one is actually quite dull in comparison."

"Nothing's ever dull with you," Lily mutters, swiping her toast back as he goes to take another bite. But now it's got his saliva on it and so she tosses it purposefully off to the side. Potter doesn't seem to care. In fact, he grins. Lily scowls. "Ask your smarmy question and promptly please shove off then, Potter. It's early, I'm tired, and you are a perpetual headache."

"Quite the little sprig of sunshine, aren't you?" Potter replies, but his tone is more amused than it is irritated and Lily isn't certain why. What's more, he actually does as she asks. "The favour is a legitimate one, actually," he starts. "See, yesterday in Charms—"

He keeps talking—Lily's mind can still absorb the continued deep timbre of his voice—but when he suddenly moves, reaches out to grab a mug and then the heated canteen of fresh coffee resting on the table, Lily doesn't register anything more. Instead, she's strangely distracted by the quick movements of his hands—swift, seamless, somehow mesmerizing movements—as he easily pours the steaming brew into the mug, drops two sugar cubes inside, gives the coffee a quick swirl with a spoon, and then proceeds to top off the mixture with a drab of milk.

Funny, because that's just how _she_ takes her—

He extends the mug out to her.

"So what do you think?" Lily's gaze snaps from his hands to his face for the first time. He's staring questioningly at her. His voice is forming words again. "Can you help?"

"How did you know that?" she blurts out.

Potter's eyebrows pucker further. "Er, what?"

Lily motions to the coffee, which he's still holding out to her. "That. The coffee. How did you know how I take my coffee?"

"Coffee?" Potter glances suddenly down at the mug in his hand as if he'd just realised it was there. His perturbed expression clears quickly, however, replaced by an easy nonchalance. "Oh. Dunno. Just do, I s'ppse. Did I get it wrong?"

"No."

"So what's the problem?"

Lily isn't certain herself, but her stomach is clenching uncomfortably and she doesn't think it's from early morning indigestion. "No one drinks coffee. Everyone has tea," she says.

"There isn't any caffeine in tea," Potter points out, pushing the steaming mug at her again. "You're a grouch enough as is in the mornings. Do us all a favour and keep with the coffee, Lily. Please."

And now he knows she isn't a morning person. And he's called her Lily.

"It's too early for this," she grumbles, finally grabbing the mug from Potter and taking a hefty gulp. The coffee burns as it fills her mouth and slips down her throat, but the sensation is better than the alternative. She nurses the mug diligently.

"Well?" Potter prompts after a few moments. Lily glances briefly at him.

"Well, what?" she asks.

"Charms, Evans."

"What about it?"

Potter shoots her an annoyed look—his first of the morning. "You weren't listening to me at all, were you?"

After a moment's hesitation, Lily shrugs. Potter lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Substantive Charms, Evans. Yesterday's lesson? Recall it?" At Lily's brief nod, he continues. "I haven't the faintest how to get it right. My notes are rubbish, probably because Peter was doodling on them, and Remus was ill and doesn't know the spell. Give a dim fellow a few instructions, would you? Or at least let me copy your notes so I can bumble through it on my own."

His tone is pleading and his expression disarmingly sincere, but for some reason, Lily can't take her eyes off his lips. They're thin, but firm looking. Interesting. She's never noticed that before. He's got a sturdy jaw, as well—long, sharp, but sturdy. He's always had a pleasant face, of course, but she's never really given it much thought before. Especially those lips. And what it might be like to—

"Evans? Lily? All right?"

Lily jumps. In her surprise, she drops the coffee mug and gasps as it clatters noisily onto the table, the burning liquid fortunately spilling in the opposite direction of her lap. She swears loudly and springs from her seat, but Potter is quicker. He's on his feet as well and has already whipped out his wand to clean up the mess. Lily's heart is pounding and she's sputtering helplessly. She swears more in her head.

Merlin, what the bloody hell is _wrong_ with her?

Potter's hand drops onto her arm and Lily flinches. He doesn't move it, though.

"All right?" he asks instead, sounding concerned. "It didn't get you, did it?"

Lily shakes her head numbly, not trusting her mouth. James chuckles somewhat uneasily.

"Right. Good. We can talk about this later, though. I reckon you still need a bit more time to wake up."

"Yeah, reckon so," Lily agrees mutedly, slowly retaking her seat. Potter remains on his feet, but he doesn't immediately move away. Instead, he busies himself with making Lily another mug of coffee. When he's successfully repeated the earlier process, he hands it to her. Lily takes it straight away this time.

"Thanks."

"Just trying to butter you up so that you'll agree to help later," James replies with a jaunty grin, but Lily isn't certain that she believes him. It makes her feel hot and claustrophobic, but someone with such ulterior motives probably wouldn't have announced them so cavalierly. Not when they could've gotten the credit for generosity.

"Careful with that one, yeah?" Potter claps a friendly hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently. Lily doesn't flinch this time, though she considers it. His hand soon drops in order to give her a quick, parting wave. "S'later."

Lily doesn't answer. She stares mutely down at her coffee instead, sensing rather than seeing Potter finally walk off. After a moment, she places her coffee carefully down on the table before lowering her forehead onto the hard surface. She strongly considers a few purposeful bangs.

"Hey, Evans?"

Lily lifts her head instantly, twisting around in her seat. Potter's stopped just a bit farther down the table.

"What?" she calls.

He grins at her.

"I've lost my bed. Mind helping find it?"


	8. Proud

**Author's Notes: **Written for the 2011 lilyjames_fest's second drabble challenge on livejournal.

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><p><strong>Proud<strong>

Really, he should know better by now than to wager with Sirius.

"Welcome to Puddifoot's. What can I get you?"

Someone clears their throat. Up until now, James has maintained a strict policy of keeping his eyes trained on his notepad to avoid the humiliation of actual eye contact. But at this light hemming sound—this _familiar_, light hemming sound—his gaze darts up automatically. He very much regrets the impulse when he meets the amused emeralds staring back at him, and even more so when he sees the blighter seated across from her.

Lily's lips twitch tellingly. Her eyes rove him. "Nice apron," she says.

James glances down at the bright pink apron Puddifoot had thrust at him this morning. He refuses to flush. "Thanks. My colour, no?"

"Definitely. New job?"

"Lost bet. Sirius conned Puddifoot into taking me for the day."

"Haven't you learned not to wager with that cheat yet?"

"Apparently not."

Lily smiles. She's opening her mouth to say something more—

"What do you suggest?" Bertram Aubrey interrupts loudly, cutting Lily off and giving James a baleful stare. James sneers at him, wishing he could swipe the plastic menu from the tosser's fingers and slice him with it. But that won't win him points with anyone—Puddifoot _or_ Lily—so he resists the urge.

"The flapjacks," James barks. "Tea's not rubbish, either."

"We'll have the Cauldron of Love Set," Aubrey declares—just to be contrary, undoubtedly. His spite is about to blow up in his face, though. James watches as Lily flinches, then scowls in annoyance. Besides the fact that she abhors coffee and prefers scones to treacle, only an ignorant twat would think Lily Evans would tolerate being ordered for.

James waits for her to snap, but Aubrey's already shooing him. "Run off, Potter."

"You—"

"_Off_."

It's a sound dismissal, and Lily silently stews instead of speaking up for either of them. James wishes he was surprised, but he knows Lily and her pride too well—too proud to defend James because of what it might mean (and it _does_ mean something, despite what she insists), and certainly too proud to row with Aubrey while James is there. It's almost enough to grab the nearest boiling teapot and dump it over his own head.

Instead, he leaves, burning-by-teapot postponed.

Soon after, James sweeps back to the table with a True Love Cream Tea and a blistering temper. He places the kettle and the plate of scones in front of Lily. He can feel her eyes on him. Aubrey is frowning.

"This isn't what I ordered."

"No, it's what _she_ ordered," James snaps, nodding at Lily. "Or what she _would_ have done, had you bothered to ask."

"James," Lily says.

He doesn't even look at her. He storms off.

It's only a few minutes later, while he's crossly throwing together another tea service, that he feels the tap on his shoulder. Angrily, he whirls around.

Lily is nibbling her lip.

"Need any help?" she asks.


	9. A Quick Rummage

**Author's Notes: **Written for the the lilyjames_fest's third drabble round on livejournal. The prompt was Lily and James's wedding invitation (dated 10 March 1979).

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><p><strong>A Quick Rummage<strong>

Truthfully, she'd forgotten about it entirely until, rummaging through her rucksack in search of the quill she'd filched from him yesterday, James jokingly remarks that he hopes she's not hiding anything embarrassing in there.

She lunges.

"I'll find it!" Her chair nearly topples over at the inelegant dive, but Lily somehow manages not only to successfully seize her rucksack strap, but _also_ to remain off her arse doing so, an improbable victory. She gives the strap a forceful yank and the bag jerks out of James's grasp. She hopes her thin-lipped smile doesn't look as manic as it feels. "It's probably at the bottom. Such a mess."

James's hands are frozen mid-rummage. "Evans?"

"Hm?" Lily buries her very red face in the bag.

"What exactly do you _have_ in there?"

Lily snorts dismissively—"In here? Come off it, Potter!"—but she's grateful for the shield her hair is providing as she briefly glances up because dear _Merlin_, she's too easy to read and this _cannot_ be happening. She _knew_ she should have burnt the damn thing to ashes the very second Marlene had passed it to her during History. But instead, Lily had just shot her mate a dirty look and jammed the stupid thing between the pages of an old Charms tome before anyone could see. There it had remained since class this morning, untouched between the brittle slabs of bound parchment for any rucksack ransacker to find.

Well..._mostly_ untouched, anyway.

Lily may have...she may have flipped open the tome a few times—for scholarly purposes _only_, of course! And if she happened to come across Marlene's poor attempt at a joke in the process...well, it wasn't as if she'd _gawked_ at it or anything. She'd just had a nice laugh. Bloody daft Marlene. The girl had clearly lost it.

And _as if_ Lily would ever be married at bloody _nineteen_. What was she? Knocked-up?

_Oh dear _god_, you depraved twat, why would you even think that?_

Lily buries her head farther in the rucksack.

"Illegal potions, isn't it?" James is guessing, thankfully unaware of the direction her thoughts have just taken. "Sipping the speed? Sampling liquid hallucinogens?"

"You've caught me."

"Or is it dirty magazines?" Lily can hear the smirk in his voice. "_Playwitch_, perhaps?"

"Oh, yes. In here, too. A couple of them."

"Or maybe—"

"Ah-ha!" Lily brandishes the stolen quill jubilantly, waving it aloft as she immediately shoves her rucksack to the floor and kicks it beneath the table, safely hidden. She passes the quill over to James. "There you go. Quill's returned. Now bugger off."

"But now I have a question," James says.

Lily sticks him with a baleful stare. "Yes, Potter, there is a drug for that little problem of yours and I'll see if I can drudge it up."

"Thank you," he replies quickly. "But while you're at it..."

"Yes?"

"Would you mind terribly changing our wedding date? Invitation says 10 March. Remus's birthday. He'd be terribly forlorn if we usurped it."


	10. Sunstroke

**Author's Notes:** Based on a drawing of astralsymphony's. Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Sunstroke<strong>

It's the end of October and the decent weather is hanging on by the barest of threads. Every spare moment, students seem to be flocking towards the grounds like droves of the starving to a welcoming feast. Lily has always thought herself above such antics—she doesn't mind the cold, never has—but that afternoon, her skin itches for sun. The sight of green grass and bright sky taunts her. She has History in three minutes and has never felt so resentful.

"Thinking of making a run for it?" someone asks, and Lily doesn't turn when she feels James Potter sidle up next to her. Her eyes remain fixated outside the window, but sometimes she thinks he smells a bit like a summer's day and her skin tingles more.

"Probably one of the last decent days we'll have, and we have to miss it."

"Do we?" he asks.

Her eyes leave the grounds only long enough to shoot him a look. "Chap called Binns? Remember him?"

The sudden grin that spreads across Potter's face has Lily's insides squirming.

"'So sorry, Professor,'" he says, already taking a step backwards as he grabs her hand. "'Evans and I were called away on Head business. Remus has promised us his notes.'"

"Potter, _no_—"

But she goes with him, because the sun and something else is calling for her to.

They find an empty patch of grass just off the lake, one whose view from the castle is obscured by a large elm placed just so. James immediately throws himself onto the ground and spreads his arms wide. Lily takes a moment to strip off her shoes and socks before doing the same. They lay side by side for a while, breathing in the soft autumn air. The sun heats Lily's skin like a sensual stroke, heady and tantalizing. The moment couldn't be more perfect, and she suddenly realises that she means the company, as well. The thought should worry her, but doesn't.

Later, when they've had their dose of outdoor magic and chatted about classes and friends and Lily's found herself telling him about the letter she got from Mum that morning about Petunia's wedding, he leans over to kiss her. Their feet are tangled and Lily's stomach hurts from laughing and for whatever reason, she lets him do it. Their lips brush and she finds that he tastes a bit like summer, too. She wants to call it sunstroke, but she knows it's something else and for the first time, she doesn't mind.


	11. A Burned Image

**Author's Notes:** Based on a drawing by astralsymphony. Enjoy! =)

* * *

><p><strong>A Burned Image<strong>

She spots them purely by accident, an unfortunate run-in in the narrow corridor just off the main Potions classrooms. Concentrating as she is on trying to remember whether it was indeed the Potions dungeons where she'd left her library book earlier, Lily isn't paying much attention. She only vaguely notes that the quick clip of her footsteps is no longer the only sound reverberating off the stone dungeon walls and that she is not alone in the lower hallway. Her mind registers the high-pitched giggling only a moment before she turns the corner and sees Liza Alton dragging James Potter's grinning lips down to hers.

There is frantic blinking and a burned image, but Lily keeps walking.

"An entire castle filled with empty classrooms and _this _is where you choose to carry on?" Her voice is heavily droll. The couple springs apart, Liza giggling and James looking amusedly chastised. Lily rolls her eyes. "Honestly?"

"Don't mind her," James says, shooting a friendly grin Lily's way. "Bit of a voyeur, our Lily is."

"Don't make me dock points, James," Lily replies. "Gryffindor's already in sad straits."

She receives another grin and a short salute for her lenience. An embarrassed Liza quickly tugs James away. Lily continues on through the corridors.

But over the next few days, Lily begins to feel a bit like the voyeur James had accused her of being. That burned image—that _damn _unsettling picture of James Potter and Liza Alton snogging in a corridor—is suddenly her brain's default. She's never paid much attention to the nuances of James Potter's features—dark hair, nose, eyes, and mouth all in their proper places—but suddenly, it's all she can do but constantly stare at the boy, examining the every slope of his face.

He has a long jaw, one that angles sharply at the chin. He's let his hair grow longer this term, the messy locks brushing just past his ears. And his lips…they're firm lips. A bit thin, maybe, but as her memory hasn't quite let her forget, thorough nonetheless.

Looking back, it was really only a matter of time, but the morning she wakes up and realises that the burned image has finally infiltrated her dreams, Lily's shocked. Worse, it's no longer Liza Alton dragging James Potter's firm lips down to hers. As she remembers her fingers brushing along that sharp jaw and sifting through that dark hair, her own lips testing out the firmness of his, Lily buries her face in her hands and groans loudly.


	12. Less Than Perfect

**Author's Notes: **Based on yet another drawing of astrasymphony's. Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Less Than Perfect<strong>

"Your ears are overly large, did you know that?"

James cracked open an eye. "I'm sorry?"

Lily shifted on top of him, propping an elbow next to his head. Her chin fell into her palm. "Your ears," she said. "They're large. Enormous, even."

"My ears are bloody _fine_."

"They're really not." She shifted again—to get a better look at his ear, James suddenly realised, and instantly batted her away. But the girl proved determined. She merely swung around to gawk at the other one. "I can't believe I've never noticed before. They're positively _disproportionate_."

"They're _fine_." But James's hand seemed to lift of its own accord, tracing the outline of the appendage with uncertain fingers. Lily's grin broadened. James's hand snapped back down to the bed. "They're _not_!"

"Oh, don't have a cry about it. It's not _complete _rubbish." Lily's fingers followed the same path his had. "I bet your hearing's stellar."

"Your eyes are squinty," James returned, catching her hand. "And you've the longest, boniest fingers I've ever seen. Like claws."

"Is that the best you've got?"

James sifted his hand through her hair. "_And_ you're a ginger."

He earned an indelicate snort at that, one muffled against his shirtfront as Lily dropped her elbow and buried her face against his chest. James kept his fingers hidden amidst the ging. Her claws scraped a gentle pattern against the skin above his collar.

"Just face it," she said. "You've got big ears and shitty wit. I'm better looking and infinitely more clever. You're never going to do better than me, Potter. Not ever."

"We'll see, Evans."


	13. Funny

**Author's Notes:** Yet another based on one of astralsymphony's lovely drawings. Enjoy! =)

* * *

><p><strong>Funny<strong>

It was the first time in weeks that she'd heard her mother laugh, a soft, surprised chuckle that struck Lily's ears like a blaring alarm. She turned instantly at the sound, searching the room for her mother's familiar form, but robustness must have been a Dursley family trait because Lily couldn't spot a single thing beyond the stalwart wall of Vernon's hefty relatives. The engagement party had been going well so far, a bloody miracle considering this was the first time that the Evans and Dursley clans had mixed, not to mention the minor setback of Lily having to split her time between greeting guests and consoling her weeping mother just before the party had begun. Now if she could only manage to shake off the lot of Petunia's mates who'd cornered her as she was fetching drinks and who seemed incapable of doing anything other than staring at Lily as if she were some kicked puppy while they murmured their condolences.

"Poor Petunia," simpered Mary, one of the bridesmaids. "No one to walk her down the aisle."

"Excuse me," Lily said, because even if she hadn't heard yet another laugh that sounded like her mother's, she'd had enough.

Extracting herself from the circle of sympathetic henwits was a task, but proved to be a timely one when a group of Dursley relatives apparently decided it was time to join the buffet line just as Lily had successfully squirmed away, giving her her first clear view of the room...and of the gift table, with the noticeable pair standing just beside it.

Her heart pulling in her chest, Lily made her way towards them.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Mrs. Evans's eyes twinkled. "James was just telling me quite the joke."

"I can't believe you've never told her the one about the witch and the Niffler," James said.

"She doesn't know what a Niffler _is_."

Mrs. Evans scoffed. "Perhaps it took a bit of explaining at first, but I got it!" She looked towards James in shared exasperation. "Honestly. My own child. Such little faith!"

"Never fear, Mrs. Evans," James replied. "I like to think she doubts the ones she likes best."

As Lily's mother let out a fresh peal of quiet laughter, Lily snaked her hands about James's arm, curling her fingers into the stiff material of his white dress shirt. She tugged gently.

"Dance with me."

James nodded and followed along silently, but they had barely made it to the dance floor before he was already pulling her closer and speaking softly at her ear.

"Before you start griping," he muttered, "you said no funny _business, _not no being funny. And some things a wizard just can't _control_, Evans."

"Oh, isn't it hard to be you?" Lily shook her head, moving in time to the faint sounds of the music. Her fingers stroked at James's shoulder. "I didn't pull you out here to scold you, you know. I haven't...she...this is the first time she's laughed in quite a while."

"Oh." James's hand rubbed a gentle pattern at her back. "Good, then."

"Thank you for coming."

"Of course."

"You didn't have to."

"What, and miss seeing you in this dress? For shame, Evans."

The laugh burst out of her before she could think to stop it, sounding short and rusty, not at all her usual. Lily realised then that perhaps it wasn't only her mother who hadn't laughed for ages. And perhaps it wasn't only her mother who found a partial remedy in the easy charm of a funny boy.

She dropped her head down against James's shoulder, closing her eyes and letting herself be comforted.


	14. A Bad Influence

**Author's Notes:** I'm sure you'll all be shocked to learn that this was written for another one of Ashley's (astralsymphony) pieces of fanart. This one's a bit more scandalous than the rest, but I think you'll be all right. Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>A Bad Influence<strong>

When they'd first gone public with their relationship, James had lost count of the number of suggestive quips he'd received about what a bad influence he'd be, and how terribly he'd corrupt her.

It made him grin, how little most people knew her.

"Just the morning," she begged, twisting her fingers in the starched linen of his school shirt. It was just after breakfast and they were meant to be heading down to Potions, but Lily had pulled him off to the side of the Entrance Hall before they'd even reached the stairs, apparently set on an alternative route. "Two classes," she said. "That's all."

"Not just any two classes—Potions and Transfiguration," James corrected, catching her fingers against his chest. But he wasn't quick enough—she'd already managed to pop the top button of his shirt out of its tight loophole. He narrowed his eyes at her. "You may be able to skive your way out of Slughorn's wrath, but somehow I don't think McGonagall will buy the 'got lost on the way to lessons' routine."

"Don't be such a bloody stodge," she said, sneaking her fingers out from beneath his, but only so she could make quick work of his tie. The poorly knotted strip of cloth fell like silk from his neck. "What's the worst she'll do? Give us detention? Don't you already have two of those this week?"

"Only one," James defended, watching her skim the gold and maroon material between her fingers. Her arms lifted as she tied the bit of fabric up in her hair, the long ends trailing amidst the crimson curls before sweeping gently at the nape of her neck. Her hands moved instantly back to his shirt. James shook his head, sticking her with his most scolding look. "You're trouble," he muttered.

"One morning," she tried again, shuffling forward until their bodies brushed. She raised herself on her toes, peppering brief kisses and saucy licks against his jaw line. "One...silly...insignificant...morning..."

She pulled only far enough away for him to see her fingers moving between them again. But instead of continuing to pop open his buttons, she stealthily went to work on her own. One. Two. Three...

He spotted the scanty bit of coral lace cupping her breasts and wondered why the bloody hell he was resisting. He argued faintly with the last of his moral gumption as her lips finally found his.

"Lessons—"

"Fuck lessons," she whispered, then trailed her lips to his ear and murmured a similar phrase, with one, vital word change.

James expelled a sharp breath.

Dear Merlin, this girl was going to drive him mad.

But as they stumbled their way into the nearest empty classroom, James reckoned he didn't really mind that.


	15. Staring

**Author's Notes:** Same business as usual.

* * *

><p><strong>Staring<strong>

She could feel him watching her again.

Lily kept her eyes trained on the Potions book in front of her, skimming through the pages of ingredients but only registering about every fourth word or so. He stood at the bookshelf just behind her, absently picking books from the shelves but never keeping any one long enough to _actually_ read. When she'd first heard the footsteps and felt the telltale prickling at the back of her neck, Lily hadn't been able to resist turning her head. Their eyes had met for a brief second before his had darted away again, suddenly entirely consumed with the rather massive tomb in his hands.

He'd been doing it a lot lately, the staring. At first Lily thought it was a fluke, that she was being self-involved or sensitive and clearly needed her head checked, but it had been weeks now and she had caught him at it far too many times to chalk things up to mere coincidence. For someone who strutted about the halls with such a slick, cavalier air about him, she wouldn't exactly call him smooth. Then again, maybe it wasn't about fluidity—Merlin only knew James Potter had never been subtle. Maybe he _wanted_ her to notice.

But for all the occasions that she'd caught him staring ever since they'd come back from summer hols, he'd never once said a word to her.

James Potter, silent.

She didn't trust it.

She knew what Sev would say, which is why she didn't tell him about all this. She didn't need to hear the scathing list of all of James Potter's worst deeds and faults, or yet another diatribe about how worthless and asinine her male housemates were. She had four full years worth of that nonsense, and didn't need to start off her fifth with more of the same. It wasn't that she didn't acknowledge that Sev had a few good points—and Merlin knew _he_ of all people knew how rotten the lot of them could truly be—but objectivity had never been Severus's strong suit, and Lily wasn't so naive as to believe that the animosity and antagonism only went one way. Both sides were at fault, and the boy standing behind her was certainly no innocent. Still...

Moving her head as slightly as possible, Lily shot Potter one more quick glance.

She didn't know what it was about him. The boy drove her absolutely mad in so many ways. He flaunted everything he shouldn't and played down everything he should, and Lily could've sobbed at the blatant lost potential. He may not have spoken to her since the end of last term, but Lily wasn't entirely certain that was a bad thing. More often than not, they ended up arguing. He was so pigheaded, so certain in the things he said and believed, and Lily would have admired that kind of conviction if he didn't dedicate himself to all the wrong things. Still, he made her think and he made her wonder, and sometimes when he grinned—even when it was that cocky arse smirk of his—Lily's stomach did odd things.

The staring wasn't helping.

Lily was about to tilt her head back around and focus on her Potions book once more when Potter chose that exact moment to shoot her another glance. When their gazes caught and Potter instantly whipped back around to the shelves, Lily's temper flared. She snapped her book closed with an angry clap and whirled on him.

"What?" she demanded. "What the bloody hell is it?"

Potter turned, blinking owlishly at her from behind his glasses.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"The staring!" Lily cried. "What's with the staring? Every bloody time I turn around, there you are, looking at me! So what is it, hm? Is this some kind of prank? Are you just trying to get a rise out of me? Because if that's it, congratulations, you've done it! "

"I'm not trying to get a rise out of you," he said.

"Then what _are_ you doing?"

For a long moment, Potter didn't do anything at all. Lily stood seething, validated in being the one to stare this time, but Potter gave her no satisfaction. It seemed an eternity before he finally closed his own book, carefully returned it to its proper place on the shelf, then turned around to face her. He crossed his arms over his chest and Lily felt for the first time what it was like to _really_ be stared down by him, to have those damned piercing eyes giving her all of his attention. Without knowing quite why, she felt a flush begin to creep up her neck.

"You cut your hair," he finally said.

Lily blinked. "Sorry?"

"Your hair. It's shorter now than it was last term."

"So?"

"I like it."

Lily's hand lifted almost instinctively to an errant strand of hair that had fallen out of its braid, a inevitable consequence of her shorter locks that she had indeed chopped over the summer. The blush that had started at her neck spread immediately to her cheeks, burning and bright and mortifying.

Potter's lips lifted into one of his trademark smirks.

"S'later, Evans," he said.

Then he turned and exited the library, and Lily was the one left staring.


	16. Flying Lessons

**Author's Notes: **Drabbles and deeper issues? Not easy to do. But astralsymphony's drawing's asked for nothing less.

* * *

><p><strong>Flying Lessons<strong>

The moment Lily grabbed his broomstick and loudly pronounced that she wanted him to give her flying lessons, James knew something was wrong. Following silently behind her as she quickly made her way out of his house and across the grounds towards the fenced-in Quidditch pitch his father had had built for him when he was seven, James considered questioning her about it before deciding it'd be futile. If five months of dating Lily Evans had taught him anything, it was that this witch was not the sort to keep her irritation to herself. Whatever was wrong, whatever he'd done...though really, what _had_ he done? All things considered, James reckoned the visit was actually going rather well. It had been Lily's idea to visit a few days over Easter hols, and since she'd arrived yesterday morning, James hadn't witnessed anything too catastrophic. But apparently catastrophe had struck somewhere in his wake, because Lily wasn't striding across the grass with a speed unseen before because she was feeling jolly. So whatever the issue, James would listen to her complaints as proper boyfriends did and try to sort things out.

He only wished that she wasn't holding his prized Nimbus in her angry hands while he was doing it.

She stopped just outside the closed-in pitch, leaning her back against the high railing and appearing more agitated than he could ever recall. In fact, she looked almost...panicked.

"Lil?"

"I don't need flying lessons," she told him curtly. "I hate flying."

"I know." Not a quality they didn't firmly disagree upon, but he did know. "All right?"

She shot him a quelling look, one that clearly stated "Does it _look_ like I'm all right?" and James reckoned she had a point. The fingers gripping the top of his Nimbus were a bleak white and she was fidgeting as if her body couldn't stand to keep still. Though he leaned an arm casually against the railing next to her, he could feel his palms begin to sweat.

"What is it?" he asked.

She pursed her lips into a grim line.

"Your house is colossal," she said.

If she hadn't been looking so serious as she said it, James might have laughed. As it was, he couldn't quite keep his lips from quirking upwards at the corners.

"Er, yeah. Does the trick."

Lily let out a sound of exasperation. "No, that's not...I mean, _actually_ colossal. It's not even a house! It's like a mansion, or an estate, or some other really drippy word like that."

"You don't like my house?"

"No! Yes! I mean, no, I don't dislike your house. I like it just fine. It's only—" She cut off again, the words getting tangled on her tongue. She swiped irritably at a piece of hair that had slipped out of the knot at the back of her head. Her green cardigan blew in the wind. Then in a sudden flurry, the words burst out of her. "You have a Quidditch pitch in your yard, James. In your _yard_. Actually, you can't even really call it a yard, can you? It's like a park. The park behind your mansion. And...and you have _servants_! Literal house elves who walk about and cook you dinner and clean your room and call everyone 'miss' and 'sir'! And you don't find any of that the least bit strange!"

_What? _

"Lily—"

"I think your mother spent more on her parlor remodel than my parents will make in ten years."

James pushed off the railing, his brows dropping. "Wait a second...you're angry because my family has _money_?"

"I'm not angry," Lily said, straightening as well. "But I don't think I realised just how insanely different the two of us are until I showed up here and was literally surrounded by it. I can't even...dear Merlin, if you would've come to Cokesworth—"

"What the hell is this?" James snapped, and now it was more than just his palms sweating—he could feel the perspiration on his chest, behind his knees, pooling at his hairline. "One look at my house and suddenly I've turned into a snob? So we were raised differently—what the bloody hell does that matter? You knew this all before! And you shouldn't even care!"

"Fucking hell, James, that's _why_ I'm going mad! Because I _don't_ care. I don't!"

The angry words caught in James's throat, stopping as he stared silently at Lily's wild eyes and flushed face. She was breathing heavily, as if the admission had taken the air out of her. But James didn't understand.

"You're angry because...you don't care?" he asked.

Lily let out an frustrated sigh. "I already told you, I'm not angry. I'm...I'm driving myself _insane_ because the past twenty-four hours, I've done nothing but think of all the ways we're inevitably going to clash—and we _are_ going to clash. Probably a million times, in a million different ways. We're just too bloody different to avoid it—and I...dear Merlin, I'm already making up a hundred excuses for you! I'm solving arguments that haven't even _happened_ yet! So I'm sorry if I'm having a bit of a panic attack, but I didn't realise...this is just so..."

As she trailed away, staring helplessly at him, James felt himself properly breathe for what felt like the first time in years.

She wasn't angry. She was overwhelmed.

Because of him.

He grinned.

"Lily Evans, are you trying to tell me that you love me?"

Lily blinked. "Excuse me?

"I think you love me," James said, leaning against the pitch railing again, tucking his other hand inside his trouser pocket. "It sounds like you love me."

Lily scoffed loudly, but a small smile pulled at her lips as she lounged against the railing beside him with her legs crossed and her fingers gently playing at the handle of his broom. She shook her head at him.

"You're an idiot," she said.

But James reckoned he was a lovable idiot, and that was good enough for him.


	17. Hands

**Author's Notes:** Written for Sam. Enjoy. =)

* * *

><p><strong>Hands<strong>

For as long as she could remember, all she'd ever heard about was his hair.

Everyone was enamoured with it. The mess. The tussle. The silky, sloppy strands, so dark and so everywhere and Merlin's _beard_, if _he_ couldn't even manage to keep his hands out of it, how were the witches of Hogwarts meant to stand a chance? You'd think the boy didn't have a face, that he was merely a wig on a stick figure, the way everyone went on and on about it. His hair was his crowning glory, and everyone ought to know it.

But for her, it had never been about his hair. It was perfectly nice hair, of course, and one could certainly grow to appreciate it, but the first time she noticed him—_really_ noticed him, the way her classmates had, the way he seemingly had her—it was because of his hands.

They were partnered in Divination early in sixth year, a unit on palm reading that Lily couldn't for the life of her comprehend. She'd never been particularly good at Divination—her proclivity was to scoff at what Professor Tiadorro found stunningly, mystically significant—but palm reading was a matter unto itself. Lily stared at her own palm for hours, unsuccessfully attempting to discern which lines correlated with which reading. She was dreading doing a practical during class, and matters were only made worse when she was partnered with James Potter. She counted herself lucky that he seemed unusually knackered that morning and didn't make some smarmy comment as he sat down next to her and immediately presented her with his palm.

"Go on," he said. "Tell me what my future holds."

They were large hands—hard hands. For someone who had been raised having everything handed to him, James Potter's hands were that of a labourer, rough with calluses that pulled and toughened the skin across his palms and even up along his lengthy fingers. They were scratched and scuffed—she spotted more than a few bruised knuckles when he curled his fingers over, and a thin scab was healing over an errant cut running along the side of his smallest finger.

Hands told a lot about a person. Lily wasn't certain if she was keen on the fact that she was intrigued by his.

"Well, would you look at that?" She ran a wispy trail over the pale indent etched across the top of his palm. Soft fingers against hardened skin. She felt the friction down to her toes. "Your Line of Life is quite long. Congratulations."

He bent his head—the one she ought to be so taken with—then cleared his throat.

"Er, I think that's the Line of Heart." The hand she wasn't holding went for the textbook. Nimble fingers flipped quickly through the pages. He jabbed at something. "Yeah. Line of Heart."

Funny, but Lily could feel her own heart pounding. "So which is the Line of Life?"

"Er...that one?"

Lily glanced down at the line that curved around his thumb. It wasn't particularly long. "Tragic Quidditch accident," she predicted with sham gravity. "Very early in your career. But you die a beloved legend."

"_Quite_ beloved," Potter qualified, pointing at his Line of Heart again. Abruptly, he grabbed for her hand. "Ah-ha." He pokes at her own palm. Even his finger pads have calluses. "Seems we're of a pair."

Lily shot a look down at her palm, noting her own Line of Life. It wasn't particularly long, either. But her Line of Heart was.

"Potions explosion," Potter foretold with a teasing lift of his lips. "Heartbreaking, really. You'd just concocted the brew that would save millions. Never fear—you were quite celebrated afterwards."

He was rubbing his thumb along the top of her palm and Lily nearly shivered. She jerked her hand out of his grasp, found an excuse for it as she brought her hand close to her face and examined it more fully.

"Perhaps they're supposed to be that short," she mused. "Maybe it's relative."

"I don't mind my fate," Potter said, shrugging. "Better to die young and loved then old and alone. And look"—he thrust his hand back into hers—"my Line of Fate is colossal."

What was colossal was the way she could cup his hand just so in hers; the way her fingers curled over the edge of his palm and hit the spot where the Line of Life really _ought_ to have ended, if the textbook was to be believed. She was surprised by his pronouncement, by the way he declared himself content with the fate his palm had laid out for him. Perhaps it was just because he thought Divination as ludicrous as she, but somehow that didn't seem right. Rough hands...he took what life threw at him, this boy, and somehow made it attractive. If he wasn't such a git, Lily thought she could become rather enamoured with _that_.

"Er, Evans?" He stared at her, gave his hand a slight tug. "My hand?"

She blushed furiously and immediately let go. "Right. Sorry."

He only smiled at her.

When Harry is a few months old and his features have finally turned from every baby to individually his own, all she ever hears about is how he's got James's hair. They're enamoured with it, that passed-down trait, the way it overwhelms his little body, the mess, the tussle, the silky sloppy strands. It's his crowning glory, and everyone ought to know it.

But Lily knows that his hair isn't the only thing Harry inherited from his father. And as the baby grips Lily's finger in his own, holding on with a solid strength that seems impossible for such a tiny person, she smiles.


	18. Guilty Pleasure

**Author's Notes:** Posting up some backlogged drabbles from tumblr. This one was for Leesa. Enjoy. =)

* * *

><p><strong>Guilty Pleasure<strong>

He hides it like a dirty secret, the most shameful character flaw a wizard can possess. She doesn't realise it at first—he has loads of practice being clandestine—but one afternoon, she catches him perusing through the library shelves and begins to become suspicious.

She creeps up behind him, silently, stealthily.

"What are you doing?"

To his favour, he doesn't flinch. He doesn't do much at all, actually, except turn around and grin at her. He's clutching two books in the crook of his arm.

"Grabbing books. What's it look like?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Books? In the History section?"

His face takes on a mask of good-humoured confusion, a casual coolness as if to question what exactly she's getting at. But Lily has come to know this boy's every trick and tick since even before they first embarked on this reckless thing they call a relationship. He can play all he wants. He isn't fooling anyone.

"Essay due, remember?" he tells her. "Dragon Uprising of 1456. France, was it?"

A slow, smug smile begins to spread across her lips.

"Spot on," she concedes, nodding. Then she hooks a thumb to their left. "Except the Dragon Uprisings are shelved down that end. Lost, are you?"

His head follows the direction of her thumb, turns back slowly to face her, then shifts down to the books still tucked against his side. He seems to realise that her intent is not as light as her jaunty tone implied. She notes that he's strategically covered the book covers against his side.

He's caught, and it's truly and completely _priceless._

"Oh my god," she says, her grin uncontrollable. "James Potter...are you reading History books for _fun_?"

She whispers the accusation like the scandal he's made it, not so lost in the hilarity of the moment that she doesn't note the faded blooms of redness creeping up his neck and the way he scoffs instantly at the claim. He sputters—she doesn't think she's ever seen him truly sputter before—and now she's laughing in earnest.

"I was already down there!" he cries, indignant. "One was missing! Could've been misplaced—"

"Oh, yes. Certainly. Misplaced."

"I haven't—"

"Let's see what books you've grabbed, then. Perhaps they could help me, as well."

Her boyfriend clutches the books under his arms tighter than she's ever seen him clutch a Quaffle, and the telling action makes her laugh even more. He's scowling—Merlin, what a pouting pansy—but the game is up and he hasn't any cards left to play. He shoots her a quelling look, as much of a confession as she reckons she's likely to get, and turns to stalk away. He's only stomped a few paltry steps when Lily snakes her arms about his waist, pressing her front snugly against his back, burying the rest of her chuckles against the starched material of his school shirt. He bristles and goes stiff in her arms. She presses her lips against the warm skin above his shirt collar.

"Your secret's safe with me," she whispers, nuzzling. "No one will ever know what a right swot you truly are."

"Still not worse than _you_," James grumbles mutinously.

They scuttle back to his study table still intertwined, and though he shoves the books into his rucksack before she can catch a peek at his guilty pleasure, it's enough to know he's got one, that that's as bad—as _brilliant—_as he gets.


	19. The Potter Plunge

**Author's Notes:** Written for Ashley's birthday, way back in August. It's goes along with another one of her brill drawings. =D

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><p><strong>The Potter Plunge<strong>

James had never been one to overly consider his future relationships. Devoted to spontaneity, dealing with the present was his preference, content to live his life from moment to moment. But whenever he _did_ happen to spare the occasional thought to such a thing, there was inevitably—naturally— always one, expected constant:

Like all proper Quidditch girlfriends, the blurry image of his future bird would naturally attend his Quidditch practices.

It took two months simply to get Lily to quit laughing in his face whenever he suggested it.

"I'm your girlfriend, not your bloody hired cheering section," she was fond of saying whenever the topic came up. "I don't expect you to come hang about my Charms Club meetings, do I?"

"No, but I _would_ go hang about your Charms Club meetings if you asked," James would say. "You just never have done."

"Because you would be miserable! Not to mention a distraction. Where's the positive outcome in that, hm?"

James didn't know, but he _was_ well aware that if he even _thought_ about suggesting that Lily attending his Quidditch practice wasn't the same as him attending Charms Club, he was guaranteed a half-hour tirade about the mind-blowing audacity of megalomaniac wizards who thought witches should cater to their every whim and if he thought that _she _was as pathetic as to ever even contemplate such thing, then Merlin _help _him...and so on and so forth, until James's head was spinning and he began apologizing for things he couldn't possibly be blamed for, but was sorry for anyway.

So he resigned himself to sulking.

"Sam Arland's girlfriend always comes to practice," he muttered.

Lily only sniffed. "If I ever begin acting like Amy Hollis," she'd say, "you have my express permission to thrust me off the Astronomy Tower."

An absent girlfriend was better than a dead one, James reckoned, but he still couldn't stop hoping Lily might one day attend. It wasn't until late March, however, when James's birthday was fast approaching and Lily's resolve began to waver under the pressures of celebratory obligation, that she finally gave in and agreed to attend one practice. It was a brisk Monday afternoon and she vehemently refused to sit in the Gryffindor stands with the rest of the usual spectators, but she did dutifully arrive just after afternoon lessons, situating herself in the very highest row of the Ravenclaw stands. As James left the changing rooms and headed towards the pitch, he sent her a broad grin and an expansive wave. Lily lifted her fingers in acknowledgement.

It all went downhill from there.

"Tough break, mate," Sirius said, clapping James on the back as they both exited the changing rooms after what had to be the worst Gryffindor Quidditch practice in centuries. They were each sporting matching bruises on their foreheads, the unfortunate outcome of a play-gone-wrong that had led to an ugly collision mid-practice. That had been just before James had had to send Robbie Vargas to the bench for excessive blagging, and just after Ellie Wilcox had suffered through a broom malfunction, leaving the poor Keeper dangling from the left goal post in order to keep from falling to her death.

Sam Arland had been the one to rescue Ellie, seeing as James had been too busy attempting to draw Lily's attention away from the book she was reading—the one her head had been diligently buried in for the entirety of the Practice from Hell.

James had never been so exhausted in his life.

He grunted something noncommittal to Sirius, then began walking towards the castle until he spotted Lily standing off to his left, the dark red book that had been her faithful companion for the past hour tucked neatly beneath her arm. He couldn't decide whether he was more cross or embarrassed, but neither was a particularly pleasant emotion. He wasn't certain if he should be facing Lily while dealing with either.

He shouldn't have expected so much, but James couldn't help wanting to impress her with his captaining, wanting to show her that he was something to be proud of rather than mocked. Quidditch might mean nothing to her, but it was important to him, and damn it, he was proud of everything he'd accomplished. But now instead of showing her that, he'd barely managed to keep his team alive. Not that it mattered, really—she would have had to actually look up from her book to see him and his teammates continuously brushing with death.

As she began to walk towards him, a pleasant smile upon her face, James gritted his teeth. He didn't turn away, but neither did he move to meet her. As she drew closer, he saw that she was actually holding her place in her book with one finger. When she reached him, he finally got a good look at his competition.

_Quidditch Through the Ages._

"So here's what I'm thinking," she said, opening the book to one of the middle pages, pushing it towards him. "This bloke Porskoff here? Seems you can pull off his Ploy better than he can. So I reckon it's only a matter of time before you land yourself in here. And I've even come up with a name for that faking-falling-catch-the-ball-again trick you did just before."

Faking-falling _what_? James could only blink, wondering if the girl honestly had no idea that when he'd dropped the Quaffle and then dived down to catch it again, he'd only dropped it in the first place because Vargas had grabbed the tail of his broom, effectively causing the thing to buckle and fall, and that it was pure dumb luck that he'd managed to reclaim the Quaffle again when in reality, he'd only been attempting to stay atop his broom and keep from strangling Vargas.

But the way Lily was grinning at him, not a hint of sarcasm behind it, James suddenly realised there were definite perks to having a girlfriend who didn't know a Porskoff Ploy from a desperate flail.

She thought he was good.

She almost looked proud.

Suddenly, the Practice from Hell didn't seem quite that bad.

Tucking an arm around her waist and pressing a quick kiss against her forehead, James asked, "What's the name, then?"

"The Potter Plunge," Lily informed him, lifting her chin with a smug smirk. "Good, isn't it?"

James could only laugh. "Excellent, Lil."


	20. Handless

**Author's Notes**: For Nella, recovering from her own hand surgery. =)

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><p><strong>Handless<strong>

They sit upon his designated cot in the Hospital Wing, picking at an overturned bag of Bertie Bott's someone had dropped off earlier that morning. The sweets lay like droplets of paint atop a wide, blank canvas, a kaleidoscope of colours against the stark white of the heavily starched bed sheets. Lily nabs a cream-coloured bean—mashed potatoes, perhaps?—and James paws clumsily at a red-tinted one with his left hand. His right hand is still wrapped tightly in a heavy stream of bandages, utterly useless.

"What's this? Lemon? Banana? Or it could be a slightly-off curry." Lily rolls her bean between her fingers, eyeing it curiously. After a moment, she lifts it to her nose to take a whiff, but only comes out frowning. "These things never smell. How can they never smell?"

"Magic," James replies, but he's still fumbling for the red bean, the little blighter seeming determined to escape his ungainly grasp. He doesn't understand why the function in his left hand isn't working properly. That hand had been harmlessly clutching his broomstick when his right had been crushed so spectacularly, caught between a goal post and a poorly-timed Bludger in the Quidditch match two days before. The Mungo's Healer his mum had forced the school to bring in had said the clumsiness had something to do with the residual effects of the surgery they'd performed to piece his shattered hand back together, but that was hardly a proper answer. Seems the only thing the surgery did was give him two lame hands rather than one.

He's beginning to grow frustrated when Lily plucks the red bean off the bed for him.

"Open," she says, and slowly begins tracing the invisible arc between where she's sitting and his mouth. "I bet I can make it in. You may be the Chaser, but I have better aim."

"I reckon a flobberworm has better aim than me right now," James grumbles, leaning back against his propped up pillows. "A _blind _flobberworm."

Lily shoots him a look. "Blind, is it?"

"Blind and _handless_."

"All flobberworms are handless."

"I know how they feel."

Rolling her eyes, Lily lobs both the evasive red and mysterious cream-coloured bean straight at him. One smacks his chin; the other bounces plaintively off the lens of his specs.

"I'd feel bad for you," she says, "but you seem to be feeling quite sorry enough for yourself."

It's why she's the one who's allowed to stay, James acknowledges, even as he glares at her with stubborn glumness. In the sea of well-meaning cooers and sympathizers who had made their way in and out of the Wing since the surgery two days before, Lily is the only one who seems unwilling to fawn over him like the pathetic cripple he's become. She's much more likely to call him a sullen prat as she eats all his get-well sweets and chases away his guests than soothe his restless ire. He's grateful, but at the same time indignant. Shouldn't one's girlfriend be a little more teary-eyed over his poor, mangled body? It just doesn't seem properly done.

Grumbling pitifully, James slaps a hand over the bean on his chest and scoops awkwardly until it makes its way to his mouth.

He winces.

"S'coconut." He hates coconut.

Lily picks up the red one from where it now lays nestled against his side. She pops it in her mouth, then grins.

"Yum. Strawberry."

"That was _mine_." He swipes blindly at more beans, manages to nab a few. He chucks them at her gracelessly, and she ducks and covers her head with a laughing cry. Beans clatter to the floor like crackling pebbles, and Madam Pomfrey appears out of her office with a stony glare and nothing pleasant to say. There are apparently two witches unwilling to pity James's sickbed plights, and lucky for him they're both constantly about to keep him in line.

A quick wave of her wand finds Lily dutifully floating the dropped beans into the nearest rubbish bin, shooting Madam Pomfrey an apologetic smile.

James wonders how long it will be before he can pick up his wand again.

"If you really loved me, you'd be a bit nicer," he says, shoulders slumping. "In case you've forgotten, I've recently destroyed my hand."

"Your hand is not destroyed," Lily says. "You're going to be fine."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"How?"

"Because I know you," she says, and now she's crawling over him, her body slowly stretching until it lines up, soft, warm, with his. A few more Bertie Bott's hit the floor. "You're resilient and you're a fighter. You're not going to let something as meager as a few vital bones being bashed into millions of shards stop you from getting it to work properly again, simply because there are too many brilliant things you have left to do. And have I mentioned how keen _I_ am on some of the things that particular hand can do?"

James finds himself grinning, even as her lips drift ever-closer to his.

"It _is_ a rather skilled hand," he says.

He feels the movement of her nod against his skin. "A _very _skilled hand."

A few minutes later, Madam Pomfrey's yelling at them again, this time louder and with more feeling. But as Lily laughingly scrambles off him, being certain to press one last quick kiss against his mouth, James takes heart in the fact that there are some things he can do even _without _his hands, and no one can feel sorry about that.


	21. Scandinavia

**Author's Notes:** Another drabble written for another brilliant drawing by Ashley (btw, peruse her genius work at ansimeone dot deviantart dot com =D)

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><p><strong>Scandinavia<strong>

"I didn't think this would be so awkward," she says.

James holds back a groan, hardly able to fault her for pointing it out, but suddenly bitterly resentful of the very frankness that he'd always admired, and thus had partially led them to this point in the first place. The pub is crowded and it'd been a trial finding a table. He'd finally resorted to bribing some third years out of theirs, which was a fairly pathetic low. Getting butterbeers had proven easier, and Lily had resolved the issue of waiting for food by transfiguring a napkin into a shallow bowl and dumping her recently purchased Bertie Bott's—all grape-flavoured, of course—inside. They'd picked at them absently in between their silence-ridden and glaringly stilted conversation.

It was, quite frankly, a rather dull and painfully awkward first date.

"Perhaps our expectations were too high," she continues, lifting a bean to her lips and nibbling thoughtfully. "Or perhaps we're not actually particularly compatible."

"We've never been particularly compatible," James says, moving his fingers absently against the tabletop. "Generally that's given us _more_ to talk about."

"Well maybe that's our problem, then. We've already talked about everything."

"That's not true. We've never talked about...turnips. Or Scandinavia."

"Scandinavia?"

"It's cold there."

Lily only lifts her mug and takes a long sip, her face betraying nothing as James feels the flush begin to creep up his neck. He doesn't understand what's wrong with him. His brain is telling his mouth all sorts of normal and clever things to say—how pretty she looks in her green blouse and cream cardigan; how he's never seen her plait her hair to the side that way, how he finds he fancies it; the hilarious story about Kettleburn and the dragon's dung he's been saving for just this very occasion—but instead all that comes out is...Scandinavia. And something about turnips.

He doesn't even _like_ turnips.

"I can do better than this," he says, leaning over the table, determined and adamant. "I can do better than Scandinavia."

"I don't know," Lily says, dropping her mug to reveal a small smile. "Scandinavia is sort of growing on me."

"It shouldn't, because it's stupid." His fingers clench into a fist and he wants to hit something. Mostly himself. "It's stupid and I'm stupid and this whole _thing_ is stupid because today is just the same as yesterday and yesterday I could talk to you like a normal person and today I talk about turnips and Nordic countries and can't seat you or feed you or even bloody _look_ at you without dithering like a prattish pansy and I—"

He's almost expecting her to leave after the seat you/feed you/dithering pansy bit. He honestly wouldn't have blamed her if she had done. His mouth is dry and his nerves are frayed and he's still trying to get his mouth to _shut the bloody fuck up _when she reaches across the table, grabs the collar of his blue jumper, and drags him forward until her lips brush rough against his.

Scandinavia is cold. Lily Evans's kiss is not.

"Hmm," she says, barely lifting her mouth from his. Her fingers still clasp his stretched collar and her gaze darts thoughtfully over his face. "More or less awkward now, do you think?"

"Less," James says instantly, though his mouth is still dry and his nerves are still frayed and he hadn't been the one to shut his mouth the bloody fuck up. "Definitely less."

"Interesting," Lily says, and James thinks she must agree because her mouth drops on his again and she lets him take the lead when he nudges back and their lips know what they're doing even if James's frayed nerves and poor conversation skills do not and _this _is what today was supposed to be about, not turnips and bloody Scandinavia.

After another few moments, she drops his collar and pulls away, leaning back into her seat and watching him speculatively. James follows suit, though he'd rather be snogging her.

"Now that that's over with, let's try this again, shall we?" She settles back against her chair, folds her arms on the table in front of her. "First date, round two."

"Right," James says.

"So." She sits up straighter, looks at him squarely and lets another small smile stretch across her lips. "Scandinavia..."


	22. Perhaps Later

**Author's Notes: **Now that the Commentarius chapter is finally up, I can upload other things without guilt. Huzzah! These drabbles are old for those who follow me on tumblr, but new for others. This one was written for Suki.

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><p><strong>Perhaps Later<strong>

"Hey, Evans! Broom closet, clothing optional, yeah?"

Loud guffaws of laughter fill the room as the fire flickers in the hearth and the wireless cackles out a merry holiday tune. The den is decked from top to bottom in the cheeriest of Christmas decorations, but James sends a quelling look towards his darling wife—who still sits poised atop the adjacent sofa, chest puffed out and eyebrows wiggling suggestively in a way that James assumes is meant to mimic him—as his mates laugh raucously and his son gives a gummy smile from the floor.

She is wrong.

So very, very wrong.

"That is not," James says firmly, "how it happened."

"Dunno, Prongs," Peter calls from the kitchen, his voice carrying down the narrow corridor. "Reckon that's how I remember it, as well!"

"That was the moment when we slowly realised we were losing him," Remus adds with a sigh, lifting his bottle of butterbeer in a silent toast to Lily. She accepts it graciously, giving a polite bow.

James watches the exchange with a frown. It's all utter codswallop.

"That is _not_," he repeats, "how it _happened._"

"No?" Lily's teasing gaze shifts over to his, her mouth fairly quivering with suppressed mirth as her eyebrows lift in pointed question. "How exactly do you remember it, then?"

James reaches down to swipe Harry off his play blanket, ignoring Sirius's offended cries at the sudden removal of his playmate. Harry's barely old enough to keep his head aloft on his own, but James finds comfort in having someone silently on his side. He doesn't quite remember how they got on the topic of recalling the very first time James had ever stated his amorous intentions towards Lily, but he knows that she's quite incorrect in her recollection of the moment, and he means to prove it.

"Firstly, it was the end of fourth year, not the beginning of fifth," he says, tucking Harry snugly against his shoulder, still a bit shocked by how quickly one can become accustomed to the small, warm weight of a child. His child. _Their _child. "And I did _not _bellow anything down the corridor. Mummy's memory's gone all dodgy, Harry. You listen to me."

"Oh, here we go," moans Sirius.

"Dodgy?" Lily mutters flatly.

James ignores them, cuddling Harry closer against his chest.

"The first time I graciously asked for your mother's affections, I did _not_, as she seems to recall, ask her to join me in a broom cupboard without clothing—"

"That is _exactly—_"

"—I did _that_ the secondtime."

There is a sudden onslaught of laughter and groaning from his mates, something about technicalities and delusions and dodgy memories for certain, but James only grins with superior knowledge. Across the room, Lily shoots him a skeptical look.

"Second time, my arse. What lies are you telling that child?" She sticks him with a good scowl. "It was the first time, beginning of fifth year. You shouted it down the Charms corridor. I shoved you in the broom cupboard and locked the door."

"Took us two hours to get you out," Remus adds, nodding. "I remember _that._"

"Best reason to skive off Charms we ever had," Sirius says.

"I'm not saying that sorry incident didn't happen," James insists, though perhaps it's worth forgetting, "only that it wasn't the first." To Lily, he adds, "I can't believe you don't remember."

"Remember what?" Her brow is furrowed now, heavy with confusion. "Did we even speak fourth year?"

"Yes, we _spoke_," James says, offended, even though one could perhaps claim that he mostly spoke and she mostly ignored the sound of his voice. But those were dark days and unfortunate circumstances, really not worth mentioning. "It was in the library. Late April," he finally explains. "Right after you'd dropped that sorry tosspot Travens."

Lily mulls that over dubiously. Remus tilts his head to the side. "I'd forgotten about Travens. Decent bloke, really. Didn't you once hex him to sing dirty ditties, Prongs?"

"You went to the _library_?" Sirius asks derisively.

A light of recognition flares in Lily's eyes a moment before her lips curve downwards.

"Wait a second...please do not tell me you're talking about the day you asked me to cut your hair?"

James grins widely. "You _do _remember!"

Lily snorts. "James Potter, how the bloody hell does you erratically asking me if I'd give your hair a snip somehow amount to romantically propositioning me?"

"The haircut was a _code, _Lily," James says. "Obviously."

"Oh, yes, obviously," Peter says as he reenters the living room, another platter of Christmas biscuits in his hands. "Jolly good code, mate."

"It's a wonder you were ever born," Sirius mutters to Harry.

Lily's still staring critically at him. "Didn't you tell me I had quick hands and a stout disposition?"

"I was going for the unconventional compliment," James replies. "Anyone could've told you you were pretty."

"You said you were sick of it being troublesome, that it needed a good hack." Lily's eyes narrow. "You said Merrie Whitaker was going to attempt it if I didn't. You said you had a list."

"Stirring up your jealousies," James informs her. "A bird only likes what she can't have."

Lily slaps a horrified hand over her mouth. "Good God, I nearly said _yes. _Getting to chop at your mess of a head sounded like fun!"

James frowns. "Well, now—"

"If Andy Halbert hadn't come along and dragged me off to study Ruins with him, I might've gone along with it!" She's laughing now, but in a rather appalled way. "Dear _Merlin, _ just think of it!"

"You said 'perhaps later,'" James reminds her, almost flatly. "I clung to that, you know, during the sad, endless days of rejection. Harry wouldn't be here if not for that 'perhaps later.'"

"Encouraged, were you?" Lily asks, grabbing a biscuit off the platter Peter's placed on the coffee table as she slowly makes her way over towards James's sofa. She drops into the spot next to him. "Well, I suppose I do like you," she tells Harry, kissing his dark head.

"One can only hope," Remus mutters, "that Harry's managed to inherit his father's devoted nature with his mother's more practical romantic sense. And ability to code."

James attempts a playful kick at Remus while simultaneously keeping from jostling Harry. "Oy. Last time I checked, this shabby coder's the only properly married blighter in the lot, yeah?"

"Hear, hear!" Peter chants.

"Hear, hear," Lily repeats, but more quietly, in his ear, and this time she presses her lips against his cheek. James turns his head and catches her mouth with his.

"I told you that wasn't how it happened," he says.

"Yes, but I think you had a better shot with the naked broom closet."

James puffs out his chest and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Hey, Evans—broom closet beside our bedroom, clothing optional, yeah?"

Lily grins.

"Perhaps later," she whispers.


	23. Failing

**Author's Notes: **Written for oh-god-its-her on tumblr.

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><p><strong>Failing<strong>

Lily stared grimly down at the piece of parchment, shocked, stunned, dismayed.

"I got a 'P'." She blinked, thinking this might morph the blaring red letter on the page, but the 'P' remained, a literal scarlet letter. "I got a _'P'._"

From the seat beside her, Marley quit gathering her books and shot Lily a questioning look.

"What's that?" she asked.

"I got a 'P'." Like a broken record, Lily repeated the phrase, blindly waving the parchment in her hand. "Marlene, I got a '_P' _!"

"A 'P'?" Eyebrows cocked, Marley leaned over to inspect Lily's exam herself. After a moment, she gave a low whistle. "Shite. A 'P'."

Lily's hands began to shake. Her body heated.

"Fucking hell." Her stomach sank. "Fucking _hell_."

"Fucking hell, what?" James asked, stopping beside her desk as the rest of Year 7 filed out of the classroom, apparently entirely unaware that the floor seemed to be dropping out from beneath them.

"Lily got a 'P' on her midterm," Marley answered, which was fortunate, seeing as Lily's panic had seemed to eliminate her capability of speech. Marley grabbed the rest of her books and stood. "Can you take care of this?" she asked, motioning towards Lily. "I've got a meeting with McGonagall about careers crap."

"Will do," James replied, as if she were a child who needed coddling, or a pet who'd made a mess. As Marley left with a wave, Lily's boyfriend perched himself atop her desk and held out his hand. "So let's see your very first 'P', hm?"

If she hadn't been mid-hyperventilation, Lily might have shot him a glowering look and a nasty remark for so clearly patronizing her. She hated when he did that, and never missed an opportunity to tell him so. But as things were, she could only hand over the slip of parchment in a dazed stupor, glad to have her hands free so that she could press them against her furiously pounding heart, hoping that might somehow keep it from hopping straight out of her chest.

James examined the paper in silence.

"Ah." Casual as ever, he pointed to the top of the page. "You'd done it wrong. You were supposed to answer three questions from each column, not three total."

"I _knew_ I'd finished too quickly," Lily muttered, her breathing going shallow. "I knew I'd gone too fast but we had two exams that day and those stupid Prefect's schedules to work out and you'd been getting sick but were too pigheaded to admit it and I was trying to think of ways to get you up to Pomfrey—"

"Which you did," James pointed out, unhelpfully. "Good thing, too. Who knew I'd contracted Fae Flu?"

"I knew!" Lily shouted, and now that she'd got it out, found some kind of outlet for all these feelings—an outlet of _yelling_, which felt damn bloody good—she found she wasn't particularly of a mind to stop. She turned on James, who looked a bit alarmed. "Just about _everyone _knew because you were hacking up a lung and in a state of constant fever and wouldn't even eat the stupid figgy pudding they had out two days straight even though figgy pudding is your favourite and you eat it like a slob, so yes, actually, you complete and utter nodcock, it _was_ a good thing because if it hadn't been for me, you'd probably be dead!"

James scratched his neck. "Er—"

"And _because _you were idiotic enough to contract Fae Flu and I was manipulative enough to get you to the Hospital Wing, _you _were stuck up there for three days and _I _was left to do the Prefect's schedules all on my own even though you know that is my least favourite thing to do ever."

"Yes, but—"

"And I _knew _this rubbish!" she snapped, swiping the midterm back from him, crumpling it in her clenched fist. "I knew it front to back! And so what if I botched the directions up a bit? Mistakes happen! Things happen! I haven't any reason to feel the least bit awful because one stupid exam is not definitive of my being and I am fairly intelligent and unusually clever and this one sodding exam failure does not disprove that, all right?"

"Lily—"

"But even though it's not definitive of me as a person, it still feels shitty and I still don't like it, so I'm going to go talk to Professor Vector now and hope to he'll let me take it again or do extra studies or some other stupid rubbish like that." She rose to her feet, gazing towards the side door where Professor Vector had disappeared earlier, rigid with purpose. She unclenched her fist and attempted to put the now slightly-more-wrinkled-than-warranted midterm to rights. That done, she lifted her chin in stout determination and shot her boyfriend a haughty look. "Excuse me."

She grabbed her books and began to stride past him, absently noting how his lips quivered upwards and he dutifully swung an arm out, as if allowing her passage. Once a few steps past him, she abruptly spun around and grabbed his neck tie by the flapping end. Yanking it towards her, she dropped a quick kiss against his curved lips, smothering his grin.

"Sorry for calling you names," she muttered. "And thank you for letting me yell at you."

James gave her a salute. "'S what I'm here for." Dropping one last brief kiss against her lips, he said, "Go find Vector."

Lily dropped his tie and gave a nod. "Right."

And throwing back her shoulders, off she went.


	24. Together

**Together**

He's angry with her. Furious. And for once, Lily isn't entirely certain she doesn't deserve it.

The kettle whistles as she moves into the kitchen, her tentative footsteps resounding like heavy stomps in the otherwise silent room. It's late, they're both tired, but she can't even imagine attempting to sleep. His back is to her, his body stiff as he moves the kettle off the open flame and onto an unlit burner. He hasn't had a chance to change—neither of them has—and her eyes trace the trail of charred soot along the back of his grey t-shirt, weaving an unsteady path from his hip up across his shoulder blades.

Had he actually been that close to the fire? Or had the soot merely transferred over from her, the tight arm she'd wrapped around him after stumbling from the flames to find him outside looking for her?

"James," she says quietly.

Her answer is silence. His arm lifts to grab a mug from the cupboard above the sink, slamming the small door closed with a sharpsnap_. _The sound makes her wince.

"James, please. I know you're angry—"

"Do you know how many people died tonight?"

Lily's heart sinks. "No. I was still with the Healers when Moody gave the report. There wasn't—"

"Seven," James answers, his voice worryingly flat. "Thirteen of you went, seven of you didn't return. Congratulations. You managed to beat the odds."

"Stop it," she says, stepping towards him. "That's not fair—"

"Not fair? Not_ fair_?" He slams the kettle back on the stove, and Lily jumps at the crack. He whirls around, his eyes meeting hers for the first time in hours. They are dark, fuming. More than anything, betrayed. "I'll tell you what's not _fair_. Arriving to an attack call at midnight only to discover that your _wife_ had gone four hours earlier. To get there and learn that she bloody well _led _a contingent to a Death Eater safe house, a location which was now up in fucking _flames_. To have to hear all of this from bloody _Moody_, on your way to see if you might be able to recover her _charred ashes, _because no one else had bothered to tell you before!"

"You were on a patrol and they needed people to get in there," she explains, lifting her chin defiantly, though her mouth quivers. "There wasn't time—"

"_Bullshit, _Lily! Don't tell me there wasn't time!"

"It's _not_ bullshit! It was good information and we had to act on it! If we hadn't done—"

"Seven people would still be alive!" James rails, and the accusation hits her like a slap in the face, the sharpest barb of all. She reels back, hitting the wall behind her, stunned under his heady glare. "If you hadn't done, seven people would still be alive and we wouldn't be having this conversation now, would we?"

"You think it's my fault?" she whispers, voice cracking. "You think it's my fault those people are dead?"

The question seems to strike something in him, a contrite crack in his unrelenting fury. She doesn't have time to be relieved that he'd obviously spoken rashly. He's reprimanded, but by no means repentant. His menacing look as he takes a step closer proves as much.

"I think that the whole lot of you took the kind of risks that end up getting people killed," he says. "And I think that tonight, you were very nearly one of them."

"Yes," she says, because this, at least, is the truth. It's not the _whole _truth, but enough of it. "Yes, it was dangerous and awful and the situation was obviously not what we expected it to be—and I'm _sorry_ that I put you through all that. I never...but this is _war_, James. A war I _have _to fight. That we're _both _fighting. What did you expect?"

"I expected us to be in this together!"

"We _are_."

"Not when you're running off alone, not sparing me so much as a bloody thought! Not when I don't know where you are or what you're doing or if you could be lying somewhere _dead_ without me ever knowing!" The words seem to shatter something in him, his face suddenly softening, drooping, falling. He's tired. Defeated. It kills her to see him like this. "Do you have any idea how I felt when I heard that you were missing?" he asks, his voice gone quiet. "When I saw that fire? When they told me..."

His fingers lift to pinch at his eyes beneath his glasses, and Lily feels herself break, too. She goes to him, arms wrapping around his waist, burying her face against the warm heat of his chest, finding a modicum of comfort in the slow and steady beat of his heart. His head drops atop hers, his lips pressing cool kisses against her hairline. It's not enough. It's never enough.

"What are we doing?" he whispers hoarsely, his arms squeezing her. "What the fucking hell are we doing?"

She's always thought she's known, that the answer to that question would be the simplest of all. They are fighting. They are surviving. They are standing up for what's right and they trying to reclaim a good in the world that had somehow gone terribly awry. There shouldn't be wrong in that, yet somehow there is. Somehow, they should be able to stand in this kitchen together and _not _be rowing about why or how or to what degree the other ought to be apologizing for almost dying. They are nineteen years old. They are good people. This shouldn't be their life. This shouldn't be them.

Her fingers clench in the thin fabric of his shirt, any semblance of a fight slowly slipping out of her. She wants to stay like this forever, but she knows it's not possible. Voldemort won't let it be possible. The people who believe what he believes won't let it be possible. And until they're defeated, it'll remain that way.

"We're doing the best we can," she finally says, pulling back slightly to see his face. She kisses the corners of his lips, the ends that curl down in a way that is so unlike the boy she once fell in love with. He's a man now, and perhaps she loves him better for it, but she's never going to like seeing him frown. "And we'll do it together, from now on. Promise."

He kisses her back, harder, more urgent. "You can't promise that," he says.

"Watch me," she tells him, because it's the best she can do.


	25. Rumour Has It

**Rumour Has It**

"I see you standing there."

"Hm? Oh, hullo. Fancy meeting you here."

James rolls his eyes, turning back round in his seat and staring dutifully down at his open library book, trying to ignore the goings-on behind him. He lasts about a half-second before his eyes stray back to the witch making a poor attempt at perusing through the shelves behind him, the very same witch who'd been trailing absently after him as he'd left Gryffindor Tower for the library fifteen minutes earlier. The same witch who had turned up to Quidditch practice before that. And who had taken the seat behind him in Charms after lunch, where she then proceeded to spend the entirely of Flitwick's lesson staring fixedly at the back of his head.

Funny, but James has always imagined having Lily Evans stalk him would somehow be a bit less...annoying.

"What exactly is it that you think I'm going to _do_?" he asks.

"Do? Why should I think you're going to do anything?"

"For fuck's sake, Evans, it's a sodding _rumour_—"

"If it's just a rumour," Lily replies, "then you shouldn't mind me checking up on you, should you?"

James groans loudly, turning back in his chair again before woefully dropping his head down to the table. Honestly, he doesn't know _who _started the bloody rumour. Normally he'd peg Sirius, but there was no way Padfoot would be as foolish as to whisper a tale about James supposedly pulling some catastrophic solo prank two nights before the lot of them had _actual_ plans to be traipsing about the Forbidden Forest with a werewolf. Sirius liked a laugh, but he'd never have one at Remus's expense again. They'd learned that lesson the hard way. So the rumour had to have started somewhere else, though James hasn't a clue where. All he knows for certain is that Lily Evans had apparently declared herself The Prefect Who Will Stop the Prank when she caught wind of it this afternoon and has been dogging his every footstep ever since.

No sixteen-year-old girl should be taking so much pleasure at ruining a bloke's fun as Lily Evans now seemed to be thinking she was doing to him, James thought grimly. It just wasn't right.

"If you're not bothering to be stealthy about it anymore," James starts on a sigh, "why don't you just sit down? Better vantage point _and _you can help me do this bloody Charms work. It doesn't make any sense."

He doesn't turn to watch her, but James can practically see her mulling over the possibility in his head—body stopped, chin tilted slightly, those damned green eyes of hers narrowing thinly while her mouth pursed neatly into a puckered bud.

He's done a bit of stalking himself, here and there.

The chair scrape is what he hears first, a moment before he lifts his head and finds her easing her way into the seat across from him. She drops her bag atop the study table and begins to pull things out of it—a textbook, a half-filled scroll, a quill and an inkpot that has a prominent chip on the upper lip.

"Whatever you're planning," she tells him as she unpacks, "you'd best give it up. If you think I'm leaving you alone for even a moment, you're mad."

"I should really be embracing this more than I am," James says, eyeing her critically. "But I've had this dream before, and this is not quite how it usually goes."

"How does it usually go?"

"The Lily Evans Stalking Me dream? Well, we're not in a library for one. And generally there are less clothes, for no apparent reason."

As she slips out of her robes and begins rolling up the long sleeves of her school shirt, James reckons he almost sees her smile. "_Never_ in a library?" she asks.

"Not that I can recall. Why? Got a library fetish?"

"No, but I've always rather pegged you for one. Maybe it's the specs."

James fingers lift automatically to the wired frames of his glasses, tracing the long end of the curved earpiece that's certainly seen better days with his hand. His head cocks slowly to the side and he strives to figure her out. "Is this a new tactic or something?" he asks. "Flirt with him to distract him? I don't think I'm objecting, but I'd just like to have it clear."

"I'm not flirting with you," Lily says. "I'm buttering you up."

"So I'll tell you what my prank plans are and you can thwart them."

"Exactly."

"Ah. Sounds much the same as flirting to me."

"Yes, but the _motivation_ is quite different. That's the important bit."

James leans back in his seat, placing his folded hands over his chest and regarding her curiously. "You know, I'm not sure about all that. I'm sort of starting to get the feeling that you're _enjoying _stalking me."

"I am trying to keep you from blowing up the school," Lily says, dipping her quill in her inkpot and gently tapping it against the chipped lip. "There's pleasure in that, certainly."

"You're sure that's all it is?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, you're welcome to start taking your clothes off at any time, in case you change your mind."

This time, he _does_ get a smile, though it's one of those "you-ponce" ones that she's keen on tossing about when she knows she ought not be amused. Over the next two hours, he earns a dozen more of those, along with a handful of reluctant laughs, and even one or two grins that maybe—_maybe—_he might be able to chalk up as genuine. She makes him work for it, of course, and never misses the opportunity to stick a pointed barb in his direction, but she's so clever about it and gets so smug afterwards that James can never really be irritated with her. By the time dinner has come and gone, they have completed the dreaded Charms assignment, muddled their way through Slughorn's latest Potions reading, and even managed to successfully answer a few of McGonagall's murderous midterm revision questions, though not without a bit of tears and collateral bloodshed.

"No more!" James moans much later, slamming the Transfiguration textbook closed on Lily's fingers. She's still arguing some point, wiggling her fingers from out of the closed text, but his head pounds and he throws his arms up in defeat. "Fine! You win! The answer is the Gartlin Principle! I concede."

"Well, of course you do," Lily says, preening smugly. "You're wrong."

"About many things, apparently," James mutters. "I once thought _you_ appealing, didn't I?"

Lily laughs at that, as if he's told some grand joke, which of course he has—it's moments like this when he knows _exactly_ why two years and more rejections than he cares to recall has done little to nothing to cool his ardour where she's concerned. Lily Evans is the goddess divine that the rest of them can only lavish at the feet of, and she's such a good sport about it that he can't even resent her for it.

Truthfully, the night had been more enjoyable than even he expected. He doesn't want to read too much into the fact that he's almost certain the enjoyment was mutual, but it's been awhile since he's bothered making an outright arse of himself in front of her, so he reckons he's due for a romantic set down soon, anyway.

"You're not right about everything, you know," he says as they begin to pack up their things, the evening coming to an end. When she glances at him questioningly, he holds up his wrist and taps his watch pointedly. "Nearly curfew now. I'm about out of time to run a scam, aren't I?"

"About, yeah," Lily agrees reluctantly, a strange flicker of something passing over her face.

James only grins.

"So that leaves us back to the original dilemma, doesn't it? Buttering up...or stalking with the sole intent to flirt?"

"If I wanted to flirt with you," Lily says, hiking her bag up her shoulder as she rises to her feet, "I just would have done."

"But that's not true, see. You'd feel the need to be all tricky about it. For appearances."

"Hm. You might be on to something there." She's quiet as they make their way out of the library, tossing a quick wave to Madam Pince as they depart. As they clear through the library doors, she begins to slow down, finally turning around to face him. "Of course, if I _really_ wanted to be tricky," she continues, "I would have just planned this whole thing from the start. Spread that rumour about the stupid prank myself."

James laughs. "'Course. That—"

But there is something in the way she looks at him just then—something in the way she walks slowly backward down the corridor, her mouth twisted up to one side, her eyes sparking smugly, her cheeks dusted with just the faintest painting of a pale pink...

James's entire body freezes.

No.

_No._

No?

"Evans, did you—"

"Night," she calls, turning around swiftly and taking off down the corridor with unprecedented speed. James hardly has time to call out to her—"_Did you?_"—before she quickly—_maddeningly_—disappears from sight.


	26. The Look

**Author's Notes**: I have so many of these to add, and so much laziness to keep me from doing it. But here's one from tumblr, taken from sherlockscheekbones999's prompt, "James and Lily looking for a flat together after they graduate Hogwarts."

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><p><strong>The Look<strong>

There's a Look she gets sometimes—pink lips spread in a thin curve, cheeks pinched slightly inward, almond-shaped eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. For years James had watched this Look, thinking, like everyone else, that she was smiling. Slughorn would make one of his prat remarks, a Prefect would accidentally botch up her carefully-constructed schedule, James himself would turn up late for a meeting, or place his cold feet against her warm calves, or—Merlin forbid—have the audacity to suggest that music existed outside her latest Abba album, and there Lily Evans would be: thin lips, cheeks pinched, eyes narrowed. Smiling, but not smiling. Content, but not content. Silently, stealthily, _undeniably_ displeased.

They have barely even stepped inside the quaint Diagon Alley flat—the twelfth they've toured since making the momentous decision to move in together—before The Look rears its ugly head. Without missing a beat, James groans loudly.

"Honestly?" he hisses, hoping the cheery witch waxing lyrical about her lovely flat ahead of them hasn't heard. "We've just _got _here, Lily. How can you possibly hate it already?"

"I didn't say anything," his girlfriend answers, but James is no fool. He knows a trap when he sees one, and the surest way of getting The Look leveled at himself is by disregarding when the The Look is leveled elsewhere. And there's no doubt about it: Flat #12 is getting a heady dose of Look, just as Flats #1 through #11 had before it.

He strongly considers bashing his head against the cheery wood of the kitchen cabinets that will never belong to him.

"Well!" Up ahead, the happy woman giving her sales pitch has turned round in the hallway to give them a bright smile. "You'd like to see the rest, yes?"

"Of course," Lily answers, but The Look is out in full force. As she passes him to follow, James grabs her arm and mutters, "Be nice."

He receives his own Look for the effort.

Later, they sit in a tea shop with the _Prophet_'s real estate section spread across the table, drinking tepid tea and basking in the failures of flat ownership. With rapid precision, Lily uses her wand to scratch ugly red lines through the adverts she's already deemed useless, which is many. James watches her go with a growing amount of uneasiness broiling in his stomach. For him, this next step into co-habitation was merely automatic. There was nothing to think about—Lily Evans is and always had been the witch he wanted. His life was her life, as long as she'd have him. But perhaps the decision wasn't so straightforward for her. Twelve flats, and not a single one would do? A bloke would have to be mad not to begin to suspect that perhaps the flats were not the problem. Yet…

Bloody hell. Maybe…he knew she loved him, of course, but perhaps…

"Lil?"

"Hm?"

"You know…we've been round a dozen flats now, and you haven't liked a single one. Maybe…that is, I don't want you to feel—"

"_Shh._" The quiet hiss breaks through his worrisome fumblings, his eyes lifting to find his girlfriend's chin still tucked neatly against her chest. She is not moving. In her hands, the _Prophet _is clutched tightly in closed fists. Her gaze seems fixated on the page until, slowly, it lifts.

There's this other Look she gets sometimes—mouth partially open, cheeks flushed a telling red, emerald shining brightly through largely widened eyes. For years, James watched her give this Look, knowing just what it meant. She'd have answered a particularly tricky question in lessons, or called an unlikely play correctly as a Quidditch match streamed through the common room wireless. She'd be listening to (godawful) Abba, or laughing with her mates. One day in 6th year, James cracks a stupid joke and for the first time, she gives the Look to him, and he reckons he falls a bit in love with her, right then and there, at the age of 16. Lily Evans: excited, delighted, silently and unabashedly _happy_. It is by far his favourite thing in the entire world.

She pushes the newspaper toward him, This Look shining brightly through every pore of her. Glancing down, he notes the advert she's just circled multiple times in big, brandishing red.

"A house?" _Small cottage, delightful garden, 2 bdrm in quiet haven of Godric's Hollow._ "You want to buy a _house_?"

She lunges across the table, dropping a sloppy kiss against his lips before ripping the paper out of his hands, already in motion.

"I'm going to Floo for an appointment," she says, and with one last Look, she's gone, apparently off to see about buying them a house.


	27. Cafe

**Cafe**

She notices them the moment they walk in through the door, all goofy grins and faux-innocent swaggers, each shooting not-so-subtle glances her way as Margot, the cafe hostess, seats them at the table by the window. Sirius winks at Margot, Remus and Peter argue over who gets the plush corner chair, and James—smart boy—immediately dives his head into a menu, his mop of unruly hair the only visible piece of him poking out from behind the folding plastic.

She strides over, arms akimbo, scowl on her face.

"Up," Lily orders, snapping the menu Margot is about to hand Sirius from the hostess's hand. She jabs it towards the door. "Out!"

"Interesting service," Sirius observes.

"Perhaps it's reverse psychology?" adds Remus.

"I'm _hungry_," Peter complains.

Turning Lily's way, Margot grins inquisitively. "Know them, then, Lily?"

"They're escaped Bedlamites," Lily answers, grabbing James's menu from his hands, as well. Her cowering boyfriend is revealed beneath. "I _used_ to date one of them."

"Darling!" James cries, as if just noticing her. "Fancy seeing you here!"

Margot laughs. "Ah. So that makes you James, then?"

Hazel eyes flash Lily's way with surprised delight. "You talk about me at work?"

She shrugs. "I have to complain to someone, don't I?"

"I think this girl should be fired," Sirius announces, sticking a finger in Lily's direction. "Terribly rude, and a ginger to boot. Who runs this establishment? Heathens?"

"Get out," Lily orders again.

Peter lets out a long moan. "_Fo_-od."

Remus lifts his own menu, the only one left at the table. "How's the Earl Grey here?"

Margot grins as the boys continue to talk over one another. "I'll leave this lot to you then, yeah?"

As the other girl walks away, hopefully ignoring Sirius's demands for Lily's papers, Remus's call for tea, and Peter's continued moans for sustenance, Lily turns to her boyfriend with a good glower. He's not even bothering to look properly guilty, and she wonders why she even expects him to.

"I told you not to come here," she says, her voice a quiet hiss. "I'm _working_."

"I missed you," James replies simply.

"You saw me two days ago!"

"Two days too long."

"I'm in the middle—"

"We'll be good," he promises quickly—too quickly, as if she needs more evidence to the contrary. But he's also reached out a hand for her, his arm coming to rest gently around her waist. His long fingers toy with the strings of her apron, and slip innocently into the gap between her trousers and shirt to rub softly at her skin. "Let us stay."

Merlin, he's such a bother.

A fit, conniving, darling, annoying, tempting, exasperating bother.

"I'm putting arsenic in your tea," Lily mutters, before stomping away.


	28. Fool

**Author's Note**: Another tumblr prompt, this one "Lily was injured and tries hiding it from James."

* * *

><p><strong>Fool<strong>

She Floos him from Mungo's, thirty minutes after the Healer has charmed the long, ugly gash on her side closed, and ten minutes since the excruciating pain has dulled enough that her head quit spinning and she can actually speak coherently. His familiar face pops in the green flames almost immediately, but he looks so panicked, so desperate, that the first thing out of her mouth is, "It wasn't me. I'm fine."

He looks so comforted, so relieved. She can't tell him the truth, doesn't ever want to see that look in his eyes again. So instead, she tells him she's tired, that she'll be staying at her own flat tonight, to sleep everything off. It's the last thing she wants—a good week spent recovering in his bed, his body curled around hers, _that's_ what she wants—but it's what she tells him. He accepts it, reluctantly.

Another half-hour, and she's released from hospital. Marlene and one of the Prewett brothers are still inside—their injuries are treatable, thank Merlin, because she'd feared far worse. The mission had been a mess, and she'd lost sight of them almost as soon as the fighting began. They'd each had portkeys to transfer them out of the area in case of emergencies, a godsend, Lily now realises. She doesn't know what might have happened if they hadn't had them.

She's too exhausted to apparate, so she Floos straight into her flat kitchen, stumbling as she lands. Merlin, it's been ages since she's been there. She's always at James's these days. She limps out of the fireplace with uneasy steps and a hiss of pain. She grabs for her side, hoping the wound hasn't torn open again.

Disoriented as she is, it takes her a good minute to realise the lights are all on.

"Lily."

He's there.

She tries to straighten, but her side hurts too much to manage it. Her eyes are squinted as she takes in James's stagnant form sitting at her small kitchen table. His face isn't haunted—it's eerily frozen, blank of any discernible signal or emotion. That's more troubling than anything else.

"James, please—"

He closes the distance between them in a matter of moments. Ignoring her harsh intake of breath, his arms close around her in a punishing grip. His fingers cut into her sensitive flesh and his face burrows in the crook of her neck. She can feel his uneven breathing gasping against her skin, and moisture—there's moisture.

Tentatively, her arms curl around him, and her eyes close.

"Fool," he hisses furiously, brokenly. "_Idiot_."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm _sorry_—"

She sleeps that night—several nights—in her bed, with his body curled around hers, warm and aching and loved and scared. At some point, he whispers, "Marry me," and she answers, "Yes."

_Fool, _she thinks, basking in it. Fools in love, and fools in war. She's playing with both, and one's bound to leave her scarred. And she's three times a fool, because just then, she doesn't care.


	29. Try to Keep Up

**Author's Notes:** My first AU drabble! Tumblr prompt was from Jess: "AU where James and Lily meet at Quidditch Camp."

* * *

><p><strong>Try to Keep Up<strong>

No one seemed to know where the redhead had come from, though speculation was running rampant among the ranks.

"France," one of the other Chaser recruits, Sav Hollis, had said, watching from the sidelines with the rest of them as the witch took to the sky. "Straight from school. Beauxbatons, I think."

"She's English," Moll Danner, a promising Beater James had played with at Hogwarts, argued. "I heard her talking with Coach. Definitely English."

"Doesn't mean she didn't school in France," James said, but watching her run her speed drills in the sky, her lithe body slanted over the broomstick with an ease anyone would admire, he reckoned one of them would have heard of her if she'd gotten her start on the school circuit. That's how these things usually played out. He'd pulled straight from Hogwarts to the minors two years before, and this trial with Appleby was not his first. He made a point of knowing his competitors, and this redhead hadn't even been on the radar.

But bloody Merlin, she was now.

_Brilliant_, was the word that came to mind as he watched her fly. Quick, agile, good positioning, and almost impossible speed. She had good instinct and an even better read of the pitch. She'd already caught the snitch twice, while the other contenders for the open Seeker position had barely made a single catch between them. James was infinitely glad they weren't competing for the same slot. He wasn't certain he could contend.

_Gorgeous_, he also decided, as Coach called the Seekers down from the sky and she landed with an easy drop of her feet to the ground. The Quidditch kit fit her like a second layer, and as she shook a few wisps of that fiery hair out of her face and slowly stripped off her gloves, James felt a pull in his chest, and then a pull lower.

She passed a few words with the coach as the Beaters took to the air, then moved towards the bench, where her bag lay. James met her there.

"Nice work up there," he said, grabbing a paper cup from the nearby water cooler and handing it over. "You're fast."

"Thanks." She took the cup gratefully and swallowed the contents in one gulp. Her face was red with wind and probably pride. She had the greenest eyes James had ever seen, and they regarded him speculatively. "You're James Potter," she said.

James blinked. "We've met?"

"No. I saw you play once, with Kenmare's minor team. You're not too slow yourself."

"On my better days, no." He grinned. "And you…?"

"Lily," she said, and thrust out her hand. "Lily Evans."

James's hand pumped hers. Her skin was warm, her fingers long. He didn't let go. "Nice to meet you, Lily. And best of luck. You're impressive."

"I know," she said, and with a smirk that seemed to light her face with a wicked brightness, she winked. "Try to keep up, yeah?"

James felt the grin straight to his toes. "Yeah, all right."


	30. Stalemate

**Author's Notes**: The prompt was, "Lily asks James out."

* * *

><p><strong>Stalemate<strong>

"No," he says, and Lily lets out a long-suffering sigh.

"No?" she repeats.

James's nod is firm. "No."

She lifts her eyes to the ceiling, and rolls over until she's lying partially atop him. They are in his bed. They are in his bed, and they are naked. They are in his bed, they are naked, and not even ten minutes before, they were shagging quite enthusiastically, and now Lily is quite exhausted. Not so exhausted, of course, to forget the fact that there is a certain Hogsmeade visit coming up tomorrow. A certain Hogsmeade visit, which she has just asked him to accompany her on. And which, subsequently, he has just rejected her invitation to. Again.

Merlin above, he was so bloody _annoying_.

"This is ridiculous," she says, pinching him none-too-gently on the arm. "You're honestly going to make me go alone?"

"You know the deal." He leans back on the pillows, eyes closed contently, as if he hasn't a care in the world. "If I come along with you tomorrow, and we go to the Three Broomsticks, may I sally up to the bar, flag down the lovely barmaid and say, 'Darling Rosmerta, can I please have two butterbeers, one for myself, and one for my beloved _girlfriend_, Lily Evans?'"

"No," Lily grits out, "you may not."

"Then no, I will not go to Hogsmeade with you."

Her yell of frustration is shrill.

"You are so bloody preposterous!" She pinches him again. "What does it matter what I call you? Just take me out!"

"Just call me your boyfriend," James returns, eyes opening. "Then I'll take you out."

"I hate that word."

"I hate being a mistress."

"Then stop shagging me."

James snorts. "I don't hate it _that _much."

They are at a stalemate, yet again. A familiar stalemate. A sorry stalemate. A stalemate, quite frankly, that Lily is beginning to give in on, because yes, she hates the words, the labels, but she hates this strange wall between them more. It's her own bloody fault for throwing her lot in with some kind of Victorian prude. Honestly, what kind of bloke did that? And why the bleeding hell did she find it so attractive?

Scoffing loudly, Lily snuggles closer against his bare chest, scowling darkly.

"You'll give in," she says. "You'll see."

He only laughs, pressing his lips to her hair. "Mm-hm."


	31. Boswell

**Author's Notes**: I really enjoy writing about James and Lily's cat, apparently. Boswell and Liam should be friends. This one was based on the prompt, "Sad James and Lily cheers him up."

* * *

><p><strong>Boswell<strong>

It is foolish, he tells himself, to be sad over something that hasn't even happened yet. It's even more foolish, he reckons, for it to involve his stupid cat.

Boswell is a dumb cat. An old cat. A partially blind, hardly affectionate, condescending, high-and-mighty, run-into-walls-and-then-sniff-the-air-as-if-James-_made-_him-do-it kind of cat who James has had since he was seven and has hated for most of those ten years. He took Boswell to Hogwarts because James's parents liked the feline even less than James did, and Boswell deigned to be put in a carry-on long enough to make the journey. The cat instantly staked his claim in James's dorm room, taking residence in the far corner with his bed and a scratch post and one of Remus's old slippers that the werewolf had given up for a lost cause ages ago. For the most part, Boswell is happy to be left alone. And then one morning, James wakes up and finds the cat in bed with him. He instantly took him to Professor Kettleburn.

"I'm sorry, dear boy," the old professor had said, looking sad. "It's in his bones, I'm afraid. Doesn't have much time left."

Boswell was dying.

Boswell was dying, and James wants to cry.

He doesn't, of course, at least not yet. And sitting in his dorm, watching the cat lounge about in his corner, James is quite glad he doesn't give into the impulse, especially when there's a tentative knock on the door and Lily pokes her head in.

"Hey," she says, spotting him on his bed. "Want some company?"

He's not sure if he does, honestly, but Lily steps inside anyway, closing the door behind her. He expects her to come straight for him, but instead she takes slow steps towards the corner, where Boswell hasn't even deigned to glance up at her entrance. The cat has never scratched or bitten Lily, which is about as far as approval goes where Boswell is concerned. James watches as the redhead gently drops something on the end of Boswell's little bed—a slipper, he sees. Lily's own, if he's not mistaken.

She climbs into the bed, and instantly curls against James.

"All right?" she asks.

After a moment, James shakes his head.

"He's such a terrible cat," Lily says, a sigh in her voice. "A darling, terrible cat."

"You gave the terrible cat your slipper."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Deserves it, doesn't he? Putting up with you all these years?"

He laughs. He didn't think he could, but he laughs.

Lily presses a kiss to his jaw, then lifts herself higher, to his mouth, where she lingers. Her hand rubs his chest, just over his heart.

"It'll be all right," she says, snuggling back against him. "Bos will be all right."

No, Bos won't be, but maybe James will, eventually. He drops his lips to Lily's forehead and leaves them there, sighing. He'll be all right, because maybe, slippers in tow, she'll make sure of it.


	32. Hypocrite

**Author's Notes: **The prompt: "Lily always gets angry with James for eating during class but then one day she overslept and missed breakfast so she's eating candy in class and James sees."

* * *

><p><strong>Hypocrite<strong>

**BLOODY HYPOCRITE**_, _the note says in big capital letters, underlined twice, and in case Lily missed the point, a rather fetching doodle of a chocolate frog included beneath. She doesn't turn back to look at her boyfriend in the desk behind her, but she reckons he's probably glowering, all aghast and scandalized. If she weren't still half asleep, she might actually care.

But really, these circumstances were completely different than his. Yes, she had spent many-a-morning telling James off for bringing remnants of his breakfast in with him to lessons, where he'd then proceed to have a second meal as—usually Binns—lectured. It was rude, it was unnecessary, and really, it was mostly just something to do in History, which was, typically, not the most _thrilling_ of classes. James didn't do it because he'd overslept after finishing up a Transfiguration essay late into the night, effectively missing breakfast and subsequently leaving him starving. He did it because he could, and probably because it annoyed her.

Which is why she takes another large bite of her chocolate frog, knowing he can see. Because she can, and probably because it annoys him.

Though now the sweet is gone, and Lily's still starving.

The next note comes with a small package attached. At first, Lily expects trouble, but then the scent hits her: fresh bread, just like the type she enjoys lathering in marmalade every morning. Sure enough, a peek inside produces two healthily marmalade-doused pieces of toast. The accompanying note is brief, to the point.

**LUCKY I LOVE YOU, HYPOCRITE.**

There's a skull and bones doodled beneath, but also a heart.


End file.
